


February Chaos 2021: Prompt Ficlets

by ohlooktheresabee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst and Feels, BAMF John Watson, Challenge Response, Cute, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Exhaustion, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Horror, Human Trafficking, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Angst, Listicle, Love Letters, M/M, Merlock!, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Omega Verse, One Shot, PWP, Parentlock, Pining, Poetry, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fic, Regency, Retirement, Roleplay, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, Valentine's Challenge, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:20:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 27,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee
Summary: ARTWORK being added as additional chapters as it comes in.WRITING COMPLETE! Enjoy this little collection - it's been great fun!This is my entry to the February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge - set by ME, mwhahahaha!28 prompts, minimal rules, COME AND JOIN IN! I'm hoping this will spark more ideas for longer fics, get the creative energy going, and be something fun to entertain us through the end of winter. Stuck on your WIP? Haven't written for a while? Never written before? BORED?? Jump in, sign up and get creative :-DTAGS AND GENRES ARE IN THE CHAPTER TITLES so if you see a tag and want to find it, just click 'chapter index' and you'll see :-DCHAPTER 13 is my entry for the Valentine collection, but most of these are Johnlocky love-struck bits and pieces anyway.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 459
Kudos: 208
Collections: Be my Valentine - Johnlock Collection, February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge from ohlooktheresabee





	1. BONUS prompt: Fairytale (poem)

**Author's Note:**

> RULES:
> 
> Each prompt should be posted as a new chapter of your entry, so you end up with 28 chapters  
> You can write as much or as little as you want per prompt - even a 2 line poem, doesn't matter. Or a meme, or a manip, or an edit....   
> Prompts/chapters do not need to be related to each other (it doesn't need to be one long ongoing story... unless you want it to be) but they should all have something Johnlock-y about them  
> As long as there is Johnlock, go nuts: AU, canon divergent, other background characters, OCs, crossovers, whatever you want!  
> Try to post per day (even if it's just a few lines) to keep up with the prompts, but at the end of the day, life happens, so don't stress!
> 
> PROMPTS:
> 
> One per day of February 2021:
> 
> 1\. Secret  
> 2\. Allergies  
> 3\. Storm  
> 4\. Dance  
> 5\. Choose  
> 6\. Power outage  
> 7\. Cereal  
> 8\. Skeptical  
> 9\. Velvet  
> 10\. Handle  
> 11\. Swimming  
> 12\. Salt  
> 13\. Boss  
> 14\. Ugly  
> 15\. Argument  
> 16\. Trinket  
> 17\. Delusion  
> 18\. Property  
> 19\. Greece  
> 20\. Heels  
> 21\. Sigh  
> 22\. Texture  
> 23\. Verbal  
> 24\. Forget  
> 25\. Mystic  
> 26\. Ears  
> 27\. Fashion  
> 28\. List
> 
> See you on February 1st......

  
[](https://imgbb.com/)

When the air is glowing,  
The edges of worlds collide,  
You hide away not knowing,  
Should you run, or should you hide?

Stand up to what is waking,  
Deep inside that darkened lair,  
As now your masks are breaking:  
You're a hero, you're aware.

(Image is Sherlock looking like a plucky little kid as he squares off to fight the tall thin Golem in "The Great Game.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this bonus poem was "Fairytale" and set by @SherlockChallenge on Tumblr. You can find me there too @ohlooktheresabee


	2. Secret (oneshot, alternate first meeting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate first meeting one-shot based on the prompt, 'Secret.'

John first met Sherlock by almost hitting him with his car.

He was driving the beat-up motor back home as a sort-of favour to his parents. Fresh out of medical school, John had had one month to get through back in the family home, before he started his active army service. The car was one of those things that his dad refused to attend to, out of pure bloody-mindedness, so it had been up to John to take it in to get it repaired before it crapped-out for good. He hated that he still felt any familial duty at all, especially in regards to his father - but he did, and he couldn’t shake it. Night after night he had been listening to the man’s hate-filled rants about his sister Harry, looking towards his mother and hoping (why did he always hope?) for an ally to help John defend her… but his mother, as always, just faded into the background. Harry had moved out six months before John graduated, and his father still couldn’t get over the indignity of having a, “rainbow waving queer,” for a daughter. John would have left already if not for some vague idea that he was protecting his mother, though from her actions it was hard to tell if she even noticed. 

John had just been pulling up to a red light when a large stocky man in a blue jumpsuit had run out into the street, a foot from his front bumper. John only had a second to curse and slam on the breaks, when a second man jumped up and slid over the car bonnet, gliding across in one fluid motion. He landed lightly on his feet, glanced back at John, and then took off running in the same direction as the other. 

That glance… it had burned the imprint of those laughing eyes right into the inside of John’s skull. Everything else had been a blur, aside from those eyes, looking into his own.

Gaping out of his window after the retreating figure who was gone in a flash of long black raincoat, it took a moment for him to register the car horns honking behind him. The light had turned green, but John pulled around the corner to the curb and parked instead of driving on. 

Stepping out of the car, he stared in the direction the two had gone. The lithe figure with the incredible eyes had obviously been chasing the other - but was it some kind of emergency? The first figure had looked rather deranged, but the second had looked like he was having the time of his life. 

John realized after a moment though that it was by then, immaterial. Due to his indecision, the two were long-gone, and he had no idea the route they might have taken. He felt some kind of disappointment at the thought he was never going to know what that was all about…

“Give me the keys.” 

Jumpsuit was back. He had appeared from out of an alleyway, and had his arm extended towards John. His thick ears and crooked nose spoke of a bit too much excitement in his life. 

_ “Give me the KEYS,” _ he snarled, advancing. John stood his ground, bending his knees slightly, readying himself for the attack and noted the other do the same… but rather than jumping like a coiled spring, the large man suddenly staggered with a huge exhalation of air and half jumped, half-fell onto John. John was knocked to the pavement, managing to get one arm out to soften the fall, landing in a muddy puddle of water. His attacker was squirming and swearing, half on John’s legs and half thrashing against the pavement.

“Sorry about that,” came an exuberant voice, completely at odds with the words being spoken. The owner of the voice came into view as John dragged himself out from under Jumpsuit. It was him again - bright eyes. He had scraggly black curly hair, a gaunt look about him, and from his jeans to his long black duster he was rather grubby… Nevertheless, he  _ glowed.  _

“Get off me, you little  _ bastard!” _ Jumpsuit snarled, but Bright Eyes had him in some kind of complicated hold, keeping him in place with little apparent effort. He grinned at John a bit maniacally. 

“Could I trouble you to call the police for me?” he asked, as if it were a completely normal request. 

“Uh… oh! Yeah, OK…”

John stood up, arm dripping dirty water, fished his bulky mobile out of his pocket and called 999. Jumpsuit was calmer now, seemingly content to lay in the puddle and swear. Bright Eyes was sat on him, holding Jumpsuit’s arms behind his back, staring at John as if was him that was the most interesting thing that was going on at that moment. 

John’s skin felt hot.

He gave the necessary information to the emergency line and hung up. Bright Eyes was still staring at him, lines of repressed amusement all over his face. John felt like a teenager again, blushing under the scrutiny of an admirer.

“Uh… do this sort of thing often, do you?” John asked, wiping his dirty hands on the only clean bit of his trousers. 

“Yes,” the other drawled, amusement at John apparently growing. He stopped smiling though when Jumpsuit made a sharp twisting movement, wrenching one hand free and trying to twist onto his back, while Bright Eyes tried to hang on, muddy water being thrown up around them.

“Christ!” John cried, launching into the fray without a second thought. After a fraught minute, he ended up also sitting on Jumpsuit, who was now wheezing and making bubbling sounds into the puddle. John was sitting on his back, facing the mystery man who was sitting on his legs.

“Shouldn’t we move him?” John asked, hearing sirens in the distance. 

“Nah, he’s fine,” Bright Eyes said dismissively, still panting a little from the exertion. He jabbed the leg he was sitting on with a sharp long finger, causing a string of expletives to foam from Jumpsuit’s mouth. “See? Wouldn’t be able to swear like that if he was drowning. Obvious.”

John laughed. Bright Eyes beamed at him, and if that puddle had been an ocean and their captive a ship, John thought they would have sailed away together. 

The police arrived, and after a lot of fast talk from John’s companion, Jumpsuit was cuffed and loaded into a car, still swearing and spitting water. 

“You get cleaned up and then get down the station for a statement tonight, are you listening Sherlock?” one of the police had said, no trace of warmth in his voice for the man in question.

“Yes, yes, fine,” Bright Eyes said, not even turning to look at them. He was looking at John, looking  _ through and into  _ John, instead. The police car drove away, not that either John or the other noticed. 

“Dinner?” the man asked, sun shining through the halo of filthy curls fanning out from his head, stance eager to be off and away from there. He was the very picture of happy anticipation, covered in mud.

_ Starving, _ John’s voice said immediately in his head, but he held back. He could see so clearly what might happen if he gave into impulse and followed this man to dinner. He would follow him there, and then follow him home, like a hurt animal who had found its master. He would follow him wherever he wanted to go that night, be that into the bath or into the bed, or both, or neither. John, who had never more than shyly flirted with another man before, would follow wherever this one led…

But he couldn’t do any of that. He was due to ship out in a week, and wouldn’t be back for almost a year. He had to live through that week with his father and the bile he spewed. There would be no… no  _ fairies  _ in his house. There would be none in the army, or at least none who could avoid derision, distrust, and scorn. No… he couldn’t. He wished he were braver - wished he had the kind of bravery that allows you to win the wars with yourself, instead of those you fought with others. 

Bright Eyes’ smile was falling, his eyes were dimming. 

“I’m sorry,” John said, voice small. “I wish I could, I… I really do. But... I can’t.”

“I see,” the man said, and then his eyes narrowed, sweeping over John, the car behind him, finally unfocusing for a moment. “ _ Oh, _ ” he said, as if he had realized something, then nodded to himself. He looked back at John, smiled again but by now it was tight. “Another time, then,” he said, and began to turn away. 

“Wait!” John cried, too loudly for the street but too desperate to hold it back. Bright Eyes raised an eyebrow quizzically. John scrambled for the right thing to say. “We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know how to find you, I don’t even know your name!”

The smile came back then, the real one. The man tilted his head to one side, opened his mouth as if to launch into a detailed explanation, let his eyes drift over John again, and cut himself off with a hum. Giving it another go, he stood taller, fixed John with a look that made his head swim, and said,

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221-B Baker Street. Or at least, it will be. Look me up when you get back from Afghanistan, or Iraq. Afternoon.”

He turned and walked away, and John watched until he was out of sight. 221-B Baker Street…

No one was ever going to believe this, he thought as he got back into the car, oblivious to the mess he was making of the seat. They wouldn’t believe it... because they wouldn’t know. How could rugby-playing, big-man-on-campus John Watson tell anyone that this was the day he had fallen head over heels for a madman that he met on the street? Clara was about the only one who wouldn’t disown him for saying such a thing, but they hadn’t spoken for months. In the past, John himself would have disowned him for it, too. 

No, it would have to be a secret, this… encounter. Something small and shining that John could keep for himself in the palm of his hand, and look at when things got rough. Something that he could remember, and perhaps admit to… but only in the lonely hours of the night.

In the future though… in the far future… maybe...

Sherlock Holmes became John’s secret; but sadly he was a secret that couldn’t be kept - kept the way John wanted to keep him - close and vibrant and vital. 

Or at least… 

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sigh*. Poor, young, daft John. 
> 
> What did you think?


	3. Allergies (poem, established relationship)

[(The image is a pair of military dog-tags on a chain)](https://ibb.co/pddR2F2)

[

I wear your tags around my neck; a secret just for us,

I took them from your side-table, to keep with me, because,

The times when you’re not by my side; the times when we’re apart,

I want to keep a piece of you to rest against my heart.

It burns, this little piece of you, it burns into my skin, 

An allergy, a nickel-fix, from metal, paper-thin,

It leaves a mark, a calling-card, an eyesore to your view,

It’s complicated, dangerous: the tags are just like you.

You want me to remove them now; you argue and you fret,

I understand your point of view: it’s logical, and yet,

I just can’t seem to take them off; there’s comfort in the hives,

They speak to me of struggles, heat: a link to our linked-lives. 

I’ll let you be the doctor soon; to fix, to help, to soothe,

Your shift from deadly soldier to a healer - yours to prove. 

But secretly I’ll miss them and the itch, the welt, the sores,

They show that I fight onwards still: I fight because I’m yours. 

](https://ibb.co/pddR2F2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!


	4. Storm (oneshot, retirementlock, PWP)

They had been formally living in their cottage for only three days when a summer storm blew in. John was brushing his teeth, and spat into the sink just as an extremely loud crack sounded, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder. 

“Whoah,” he said softly to himself, glancing out through the net curtain of the small bathroom window, water still running in the sink in front of him. He only had to wait a minute - there was another flash, and another grumble from the darkened sky above. John grinned, then quickly swished his mouth out again, before turning off the tap and wiping his hands on the towel. He opened the door of the small ensuite, to find Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed, staring up at the sloping skylight with rapt attention. He glanced at John quickly with a grin that took years off his face. 

There was another flash with a deafening crack, and the thunder this time was more like the bang of an explosion. John startled a little, but Sherlock had extended his hand without needing to look at him again, and John stepped forward to take it. 

He sat next to his husband, pressed together from shoulder through hips, down to their ankles, hands joined firmly between them. At the next strike of lightning, he couldn’t help but give a little whoop of joy, and Sherlock’s fond chuckle kept him grounded through the thunder, as did the sweep of his thumb on the top of John’s hand. 

“They’re so close,” he whispered when there was a pause in the cacophony. “It’s like they’re right on top of us.”

“Well, you did insist on this cottage right in the shadow of Ditchling Beacon,” Sherlock drawled, still looking upwards. “It’s the highest point in all of Sussex - storms like this are likely to be the soundtrack to the season.”

“It was the best cottage,” John said with a mock-pout, and Sherlock smiled indulgently up at the window. “Plus, it has your bees… will they be alright, in this?”

There was another crack, and the first tapping of rain drops began against the glass. 

“They’re bees, John,” Sherlock said patiently, as he did to almost all of John’s bee-based enquiries. “They’re smart enough to be inside their hive, where it’s safe and dry.”

“But they’ll be awake, right? The storm will wake them up?” John looked away from the window, turning his head in order to press his face against Sherlock’s hair, his nose resting just behind his earlobe. 

“It might,” Sherlock murmured, and as John exhaled through his nose he felt a shiver run through him. “They sleep around eight hours a day though - just like we do.”

“So tomorrow they’ll have a lay in?” John asked against his neck, as another crack and rumble echoed all around them. He twisted his torso around a little, and with his free hand began tracing patterns on the top of Sherlock’s cotton-covered thigh. His circling fingertips wandered here and there, as he listened to both the rain and the change in his husband’s depth of breathing. 

“I… I suppose they might…” Sherlock conceded, and as the patterns John was creating with the softest touch spiraled down onto his inner thigh, he gripped John’s hand harder, head beginning to arch backwards. 

“Hmmm…” John hummed, moving his lips down to the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, fingers still moving, lightly and teasing. The rain was falling in a torrent now, the lighting providing an uneven counterpoint to their conversation. “So, theoretically…” he said, pausing to place a kiss right on Sherlock’s carotid artery, earning him a gasp that even after all these years went straight to his groin, “... if the bees are having a lay-in, then that means you can do the same…” his searching fingertips moved up Sherlock’s inner thigh, still with only the lightest pressure, and Sherlock’s breath turned into soft, slow pants… “...right?” His fingertips found the bulge in Sherlock’s pajamas; trailed up and down lightly. 

“You… you’re a menace, John Watson,” Sherlock said, tone of arousal clear as the lightning above. John hummed with pleasure against his throat, happy to provide the accompanying thunder as necessary. 

“So you’ll stay in bed with me?” John said, moving his hand back to Sherlock's thigh but palm down now, open and stroking. Sherlock shifted in place, the hand gripping John’s twitching. 

“I’ll…” John’s hand stroked in circles back and forth, getting ever-closer to the hard length of heat between Sherlock’s thighs, but never quite touching it. “I’ll… ah! I’ll stay in bed with you!”

“And you won’t wake me up at some silly hour to go tend to the bees?” John pushed, turning more on the bed so that he had to lift one knee up and onto it. He left a trail of deep kisses down the side of Sherlock’s neck towards his collarbone, causing a rumble as loud as the thunder outside to emanate out from his husband’s chest. 

“I...  _ oh John _ … I…, no, no I won’t…”

“Because the bees will be sleeping in,” John said, palming Sherlock’s erection now through his pajamas, though still with a too-light pressure.

“Yes… oh,  _ yes, John _ …”

“And we are at least as smart as bees,” he continued, pressing harder, rubbing circles, and Sherlock began to shift in place next to him seeking friction. 

“Yes… we…  _ yes _ …”

“Good man.” John slipped his hand up and under Sherlock’s waistband, palming his cock and circling his thumb over the tip in one smooth motion. Sherlock bucked in his touch, finally turning to look at him and hungrily seeking out his mouth with his own. Electricity crackled between them, still as strong now as the day they met, and as their tongues slid together and Sherlock pushed up into the palm of John’s hand, John thought - this storm’s got nothing on us. 

John removed his hand, receiving a whine from his husband, but John just chuckled as he gestured to the side table. Sherlock clumsily leaned over with his left hand, unwilling to release the grip he had on John’s hand with his right, and opened the drawer to fetch the lube. He squeezed some onto John’s waiting palm, then dropped the bottle so he could slip his hand into John’s hair. Kissing him again, John crawled back onto the bed, encouraging Sherlock to move with him until they were laying down, tongues curling and seeking out against the other’s. John yanked Sherlock’s pajama pants down to mid-thigh, then took him in hand again, establishing a quick and even rhythm. 

“John,  _ fuck, _ John…” Sherlock gabbled, hips now moving of their own accord. 

“Yes, honey?” John said, voice amused even through his own arousal as the storm raged on around them.

“John…  _ oh _ … I want you in my mouth… ah!  _ John _ …”

“Soon…” John soothed, his cock throbbing at the thought.

“ _ Ngh _ … I…  _ ah _ … I’ll make it so  _ good  _ for you, John… so,  _ so _ good…oh, I  _ promise _ ...”

“I know you will,” John purred, increasing both pressure and tempo until Sherlock was an inarticulate tangle of need before him, gasping and sweating. John leaned in until his lips were grazing Sherlock’s ear, and whispered, “Come for me, honey.” Sherlock’s body went taught and his gasps turned to cries, building up in volume and swallowed by the thunder that was still raging outside. He spilled over John’s hand, hot and vital, and never had John seen such a powerful force of nature. After a few spurts and a moment of tension, Sherlock’s muscles began to relax as he came down from his high, and he turned to John for more kisses - now slow and languid. John wiped his right hand on the sheets then stroked up and down his husband’s ribs, realising that his left hand had remained locked in Sherlock’s right this entire time. 

He squeezed it now, and Sherlock broke off from the kiss, looking to where their still-joined hands lay between them, then gave John a smile that lit the room far brighter than a lightning-flash ever could. 

John smiled back, but then realized Sherlock must be getting uncomfortable. “I’ll just get a washcloth,” he said, making to get up, but Sherlock growled and with a burst of sudden energy, flipped him onto his back. 

“Sherlock!” John laughed in surprise and delight, which quickly turned into a fresh surge of desire at the devilish look on his husband’s face. 

“I believe, John, that I have a promise to keep,” he said, voice low, and as he began to slide down John’s body, John stared up at the chaos raging outside their window, wondering if the bees were having as good a time as they were. 

The next morning when he woke up, Sherlock had gone out to tend to the bees, managing to slip out without waking him, but leaving a doodle of a sleeping bee on the nightstand. John was mildly annoyed that Sherlock hadn’t been there to wake up to and cuddle - but he supposed that now they were entering their retirement, he could forgive him.

[](https://ibb.co/447Qys2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep those comments coming, you know I love to see them :-D


	5. Dance (221B, pining)

Being classically trained, Sherlock is able to recognise their movements for what they really are. I fetch the biscuits; you pour the tea. I hail the cab; you pay the driver. I talk to things, you talk to people. I solve the case; you save the life.

It was a dance; this way they had between them. A dance so familiar, they moved through the steps unthinking. Lean back to avoid the hand that is hanging up the jacket. Move those feet to avoid those others that have joined them under the table. Hold that mug there, so that the fingers are a mere millimetre from the fingers that are not your own...

A dance then, one to which he apparently knew the steps, but in which he had received no training… or had he? Had John shown him where to go, how to place his feet, his legs, his arms and hands and hips… was John leading? Was Sherlock following? 

The dance was growing more complex these days - the spaces between them smaller, the steps closer, the tempo faster. John was leading, and Sherlock was grateful, because though he was classically trained in many variations, in this dance, he was an amateur. As Sherlock’s lead partner in this dance, John was the only man who could do such a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221Bs are way harder than they look!


	6. Choose (poem, romantic fluff)

[](https://ibb.co/Kr1dF7B)

(Three images. First, John and Sherlock looking tense at John's wedding. Second, the interior of an empty church. Third, Sherlock and John sitting together on a bench in a park.)

I thought that I knew you,

I thought I knew all, 

The one that I look to, 

The one standing tall,

I thought I could see past your shams and your wiles, 

But I was deceived by your struggling smiles...

How long were you waiting?

How long did you ache?

No anticipating,

Your platitudes, fake.

You said you’d stand with me and be my best man, 

And be happy for me; well maybe you can...

But I can’t, my darling, 

But I can’t, you see?

My heart inside snarling,

When you’re not with me.

I said that I’d love her, that I’d be her groom,

That I’d find some space in my heart, I’d make room…

So now I stand here,

In the church, on the day,

The two paths are clear,

I must choose; choose the way,

Down one path, the suburbs; the safety, the wife,

But you’re down the other, and you are my life.

There will be no wedding,

No dancing, no cake,

The news is now spreading:

The bridegroom’s a fake,

“It’s obvious, really,” I hear in your voice,

“You chose him?” she screams. No, it wasn’t a choice. 

You instantly knew me,

The day that we met,

Your eyes looked right through me, 

I’ll never forget,

I’m sorry that I didn’t pick up the clue,

I hope you know now, if I choose: I choose you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs with heart eyes*
> 
> To those wondering why I post the image version AND an image description with the written version, it is for our friends with visual impairments who use screen-readers to enjoy their fics. Consider doing the same for your images :-D


	7. Power outage (oneshot, hurt/comfort, TW human trafficking)

The desperate search for the missing women had led them to the London dockyards, and the maze of shipping containers contained within. From above it would have looked like a swarm of ants running all over a pile of lego bricks; the reality was that whole teams of police officers were spreading out over the dockyard in an attempt to find the right container before the women ran out of air. 

John watched the officers fanning out from where he stood by Greg’s car, clenching and unclenching his fists, rubbing at his swollen knuckles, agitated and exhausted. The gang member that Sherlock had managed to track down had told them that the adapted containers were sealed to prevent discovery, with perfectly timed transfers in order to keep the ‘merchandise’ alive. ‘Told them’ was a polite way of saying that John had beat it out of his sorry carcass while Greg had been mysteriously called away, and the resulting ache in his bruised hands gave him some grim satisfaction. 

Unfortunately the man hadn’t been able to give them the exact information about the latest container - just a link to a website with a series of codes that would mean something to the other members of the ring, but were gibberish to anyone else. The police in five countries had all moved at the same time to bring the ring down, but with horror the logistics team had realized that they had made a potentially fatal error - a container was missing, and none of the criminals were willing to divulge where it was, for fear of taking all of the heat. 

Greg was pacing through the mud next to the car, back and forth, back and forth, rubbing his hands over his face and his hair. John knew that he purposefully was not looking towards the interior of the car, just as John was trying not to - because Sherlock was in there, looking like one more piece of pressure would shatter him into a million tiny pieces.

The detective had a police laptop open on his lap, a tablet in one hand, his phone in the other, and was making rapid calculations and muttering to himself. John had managed to get a few hours sleep and a bite to eat here and there, but not Sherlock. No, Sherlock had started work on the case and he was not going to stop until it was over - no matter what his transport had to say about it. He was gaunt, grubby, and had a black eye from one of the many scuffles of the previous four days since Greg had called them in to help. His voice sounded hoarse from continuous talking, his curls were lank and hung close to his head, and when John looked closely he could see his hands were continuously shaking…

But John wouldn’t say anything, because they all knew the ugly truth - if Sherlock couldn’t find the right container, those women would die. 

It shouldn’t be that way; it wasn’t fair. There were codebreakers and law enforcement officials all over the country and the world who could have done it as well. But they weren’t here, they didn’t know the nuances of the case, and explaining to them would take more time than they had left. 

Greg’s techs had estimated the women had three hours of air left. Sherlock had said two. 

That had been two hours ago.

John stared numbly at the unfolding scene, men and women manic in their determination to find the right container. Groups with bolt-cutters were running here and there, cracking open containers completely at random. Others were running up and down the massive rows, banging on the metal walls with pipes, listening for a moment for a muffled cry but hearing nothing, before running onwards. 

It was a mess, and the air was thick with the potential for tragedy. 

John caught Greg’s eye. Greg looked sick with worry, eyes huge in his head, and he frowned at John then nodded just a fraction towards the car. That wasn’t fair either, Greg suggesting in any way that John go and bother Sherlock, go and try and hurry him. Sherlock was doing the best he could - better. He was running himself right into the ground, right off a pier and into the sea… but John sighed, and nodded in return. 

Walking the few paces to the open door, he looked inside. Sherlock had put his phone down now and was looking from tablet to computer screen, lips moving rapidly as he continued to talk under his breath. With dismay, John saw that he was rocking slightly, forwards and backwards, his grip on the devices tense enough to break glass. 

“Sherlock?” he asked, against his better judgement. No response. “Sherlock?” he tried, louder. Sherlock shrunk into his coat, the collar upturned, and the rocking and vocalisations increased. 

“Anything?” Greg said from behind John, and John couldn’t help but turn and glare at him. 

“If he had something, he would have told us,” John snapped. 

“I know, I know, I just…” Greg gestured widely at the tangled mess of frightened people in front of them.

“He can’t tell us what he doesn’t  _ know!” _ John said, exasperated.

“Doesn’t know…” Sherlock muttered, voice cracking. 

“I get it, John, I do,” Greg said, laying a hand on John’s shoulder that was quickly shrugged off. 

“Do you? Look at him! What’s happening here isn’t his fault, but you and your lot act like if he doesn’t find them, he’s somehow responsible!”

“No one is saying that,” said Greg, but John was on a roll. 

“Maybe not, but they’re thinking it,” said John.

“Doesn’t know…” Sherlock repeated, looking up and frowning at the windshield. 

“And what about what they are saying, huh? ‘Freak’ and ‘machine’ and all that? I thought you were going to have words with them.”

“I will, I promise I will, once this case…”

“It’s always, ‘once this case is over’, isn’t it! But then it still never bloody happens!”

“Doesn’t know!” Sherlock cried, and started bashing at the laptop keys like it had personally offended him. 

“Sherlock?” Greg said, then took a step back at the look on John’s face. 

“I’ve been looking at this all wrong, stupid,  _ stupid, _ it’s not what’s in the code it’s what isn’t in the code, it’s the spaces, it’s  _ in the spaces, _ do you see? Slow, slow, I’ve been so  _ SLOW.”  _ He sounded absolutely disgusted with himself, and John stepped between him and Greg like a human shield. 

“It’s alright Sherlock,” he said, listening to the rapid click of keys continue as Sherlock tried a new algorithm. Sherlock only huffed in response, and John had to fight a strong urge to just grab Greg’s car keys, jump in the front seat and drive them both away from there. 

“GOT IT!” Sherlock suddenly crowed, and shoved John out of the way so hard he almost fell into the mud. Sherlock grabbed Greg by the front of his coat and put the laptop, precariously balanced in one hand, right up in his face. “Look,  _ LOOK!” _

“Sherlock, I don’t know!” shouted Greg, tension lines deep in his face. “It’s letters and numbers, it doesn’t mean anything to me!”

“But it’s there, it’s right there!” Sherlock said, frustration and anger pouring off of him. He jabbed at the screen, then whirled in place, eyes searching. 

“John!”

“I’m here, Sherlock,” John said, trying for calm in the face of the maelstrom that was his best friend.

“John,  _ John, _ it’s right there, you have to  _ look, _ you have to  _ see _ …” 

Up close, John could see that Sherlock was almost crying with frustration, eyes red and raw with fatigue. He continued to tap at the same spot on the screen, looking from it to John and back. He coughed then, abruptly, and John lunged to catch the laptop as it fell from his shaking hands - but was too late. He grabbed Sherlock’s elbows to keep him from falling over, but Sherlock was staring down at the fallen laptop, screen now facing upwards. 

“John,  _ look…” _

“Oh my god,” John said, jaw dropping open, because he did, he  _ did _ see. The strange combinations of letters and numbers weren’t a code: they were a  _ map. _ In between the lines were the thin alleyways made by the containers, the cubes of information were the containers themselves. 

“And… and A means the one at the bottom and then it goes up?”

_ “Yes,” _ Sherlock said, sagging forwards slowly the way a felled tree sags. John caught him under the armpits and held on, and Sherlock made a gentle sighing noise once safely in his arms.

“Uh, guys? Can you please explain to me what’s going on?” Greg said, obviously trying hard not to upset them further. 

“Greg! Look, it’s a map, do you see?” He nodded down at the screen. “Look, the rectangles…” said John, planting his feet in order to keep him and Sherlock upright.

“Rectangles are the containers, holy…” Greg began cursing as he picked up the laptop. Sherlock’s head was fully resting on John’s shoulder, so John couldn’t see his face, but he could feel his body trembling even through the fabric of his thick coat. 

“But which one is it?” Greg fretted, looking away for a moment and waving a group of officers over. John grimaced, curly hair tickling the side of his face, but he gave Sherlock a little shake. He realized that the detective’s arms were hanging limply at his sides, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. 

“Sherlock? ...Sherlock, are you OK?” There was no response, and he looked to Greg for help. Greg shoved the laptop at a young officer and walked quickly around John’s back. 

“Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock? ...His eyes are closed, mate,” Greg reported, voice laced with worry. 

“Shit! Help me lay him down,” John said, looking towards another young officer who rushed forward to help them. Together the three of them got Sherlock safely onto the ground, but John felt extremely guilty laying his best friend out in the mud for all to see. 

“Sherlock?” he tried again, taking his pulse. It was far too fast for John’s liking, and he grimaced as he reached for Sherlock’s eyelid. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Greg asked, and John just about exploded. 

_ “What’s wrong with him? _ He hasn’t slept or eaten in  _ four days! _ His heart rate is elevated as a stress response, he’s got some kind of breathing issue, he’s passed out from  _ exhaustion, _ that’s what’s  _ wrong with him!” _

“Alright John, I’m sorry,  _ we’re sorry,” _ Greg said, leaning back at first against the tirade from the crouching man; but then he crouched down as well. “But… but it’s not enough. It’s not enough to know it’s a map. We still don’t know where to go, and ...Sherlock might. Look, you can scream at me later,” he said as John took in a huge breath ready to do just that, “But right now I’m trying to save twelve women from a horrible death. They might be dead already, but… please. John,  _ please.” _

John knew that objectively, Greg was absolutely right to be asking what he was asking - but John wasn’t objective, that was the problem. The most important person to him in all the world was laying on the cold ground, still shaking even while unconscious and now someone wanted John to wake him up and ask him questions?

No. 

_ No! _

He sat back on his heels for a second, tugging at his hair and staring over at the shipyard. Most of the officers were out of sight, but he could hear them calling, screaming, for someone to answer them from within the maze. He looked down at his feet, to Sherlock’s lax face, only cushioned from the ground by the collar of his coat, hair trailing in the mud. 

“Get an ambulance over here,” John hissed at a random nearby officer, who thankfully knew what was good for them and trotted off to bring one of the many waiting ambulances over to the scene. 

“Sherlock?” John said, patting his friend’s face and hating himself. “Sherlock, you have to wake up, now.” Nothing, not even a flicker behind his eyes. John wondered then what the inspector was going to do if Sherlock literally  _ couldn’t _ wake up, and started hating his police friend just a little tiny bit. John made a fist, wincing at his split knuckles, but began to rub Sherlock’s sternum, hard, hearing the rumble of the ambulance parking up next to them. Sherlock gasped involuntarily, and his eyes whipped open, a startled and hurt look on his face. One sweep of his surroundings, and his gaze locked onto John, tired questions and worry all over his face.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John said, sparing a withering look at Greg who had the grace not to look too pleased. “We just need your help with one more thing, just one more thing and then you can sleep, I promise.” Sherlock’s face screwed up in consternation, and he literally started trying to turn his face away, either uncaring or unknowing that the action would push his face into the dirt. 

“I know, Sherlock, I know,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s sternum again to bring him round. Sherlock gasped again, then glared at him, one lone angry tear trailing down the side of his face. “I’m sorry,” John said, lump in his throat. “I’m sorry, I really am, but please - where is the container?” 

Sherlock gave him a look then that he would recognise anywhere: it was his, ‘How have you lived this long, being this slow?’ look, and John had to remind himself not to smile at the familiarity. Sherlock’s lips moved slowly, but no sound came out. The ambulance workers were crouched next to them now, and Greg explained to them quietly how Sherlock came to be in this state. 

“I can’t hear you, Sherlock,” John said, and he knelt down in the mud then so he could put his ear up close to Sherlock’s lips. A weak hand came to rest in John’s hair, just as John’s hand found itself tangled in mud and curls. The airflow of Sherlock’s inhale tickled at John’s ear, and part of him just wanted to lay down, right there in the mud, petting Sherlock’s hair. 

“It’s… it’s pirates…” Sherlock whispered, and then he coughed weakly, lips grazing John’s earlobe. 

“Pirates?” John whispered back, worrying that Sherlock was hallucinating. 

“Buried treasure, John,” Sherlock said softly, the grip in John’s hair disappearing. 

Buried treasure…

John sat up, glancing at Sherlock’s face, who was once again unresponsive. 

“Well?” Greg asked, doing everything but stomp his foot to show his frustration. 

“Buried treasure,” John murmured… and then he had it. “X marks the spot!”

“Wha…  _ oh!” _ Greg exclaimed, and he and his officers fell onto the laptop, searching for the X hidden in the text - and they were elated to find that there was only one. Suddenly, John was left alone with his fallen friend, two ambulance workers and an idling car, as all the other emergency workers headed into the dockyard. 

“Let’s get him onto a scoop,” said a woman identified as Claire by her nametag. “When’s the last time he ate?” 

“Uh… I don’t know. Five days ago?” John hedged, and flushed with shame at the annoyed look she gave him. They had gotten Sherlock into the plastic scoop and then up and secured in the back of the ambulance, when they heard a faint cheer and spontaneous applause from far off among the containers. 

“You’re friend did it,” Claire said, and it seemed she had forgiven him a little. “He saved those people.” She gestured at a fold-down seat, and he buckled himself in. 

“Yeah... “ John said, and though he knew that later he would be elated, right now he just felt incredibly guilty. “I wish though that he would save himself, at least some of the time,” he said as Claire closed and secured the back doors. 

“Self-preservation skills would be good, yes,” she said with a smile, and the engine keyed on underneath them. “Seems like you do a pretty good job saving him, too.”

“I’d be lost without my blogger,” came a voice from the gurney, and John leaned forward as far as we were able in order to reach the hand that was straining in his direction. Claire busied herself getting an IV bag ready, while John clasped Sherlock’s hand and held on tight. 

“And I’d be lost without you, you daft bugger,” John said, unwilling just then to play the part of mere friend and flatmate, his own tiredness and relief washing over him. “You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”

Sherlock’s thumb swept once across John’s abused knuckles, and his tired eyes shone with warmth from between tendrils of dirty hair.

“Yes, yes, I know,” John said, smiling around a yawn. “I’ve got to take better care of myself, too.” 

The ambulance turned a corner, making John woozy. 

“We could try…” Sherlock began, then coughed a few times, looking just wretched. 

“We’ll get that taken care of,” said Claire with some sympathy. Sherlock barely acknowledged her, but squeezed John’s hand as much as he was able. 

“We could try… taking care of each other?” he asked, eyelids sitting heavy on his face. The lump in John’s throat returned. 

“We already do that,” he said quietly, and Sherlock hummed softly in agreement as he fell back into sleep. 

John held Sherlock’s hand all the way to the hospital. 

He was still holding it two days later, when he and Sherlock returned to Baker Street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might be worth expanding in the future - what do you think?


	8. Cereal (221B, friends to lovers)

John slammed the empty box down with irritation. 

“Sherlock! I have bought cereal twice recently, and yet again it has vanished. Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly developed a liking for, ‘Honey-oat Delight.’"

“What?” Sherlock called, and only then did John realize his flatmate was not in the kitchen but calling from behind the open bathroom door. 

“Did you steal my cereal?” John asked, stomping closer and hearing the sound of running water. 

“Hmmm, yes,” Sherlock said, and just as John got to the open door, the top of the shower curtain was pulled back to reveal a soaking wet and naked Sherlock Holmes. 

John gaped at him. 

“It’s good for the skin, you see,” Sherlock said as if the situation was normal. 

“Skin?” John squeaked, unable to focus on anything else. 

“Yes, mixed with a little honey, it’s a marvellous exfoliator. Why, my skin is as soft as… something very, very soft, John.” Sherlock gave him a wicked grin, then disappeared back behind the curtain. 

John swallowed, feeling like he’d just been hit by a truck. He started to turn away, when,

“Want to try it?” Sherlock asked from behind the curtain.

“Oh god, yes,” John groaned, and Sherlock’s face appeared again, this time with a seductive smile.

John shed his clothes, pulled aside the curtain, and stepped into the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course merely eating the cereal would be too pedestrian for Sherlock hahaha


	9. Sceptical (poem, pining)

[](https://ibb.co/qdMLx0D)

For our friends with screenreaders: (Image is of John looking at the camera, Sherlock standing next to him but looking at John instead)

“We’re just friends!”  
John likes to shout;  
To make a little spectacle.  
I disagree inside my head,  
But then, I’m less susceptible,  
To passing whims,  
To fantasies,  
Reality: perfectable,.  
I see what’s there,  
Reality: perceptible.

“We’re best friends,”  
He says to me,  
To keep it all respectable.  
I hoard the phrase,  
I keep it close;  
His syllables, collectible.  
I watch his mouth,  
Around the word,  
Think to myself: delectable.  
But keep that too,  
The secret burns,  
Regrettable.

We’re not friends,  
They all can see,  
And to them,  
It’s acceptable.  
But not to John;  
Inside his head,  
It must stay undetectable.  
I will not push,  
I’ll keep my peace,  
I’ll be his lie-receptacle;  
“We’re just friends!”  
Forgive me, John:  
I’m skeptical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this one :-D


	10. Velvet (100 word drabble, AU)

Should be illegal: Sherlock in a velvet tux. They’re trying on suits for their wedding, and John pushed for trying the velvet, in spite of Sherlock’s eye-rolling. The tux absorbs all light, making Sherlock’s skin glow the brighter. He fixes John with a challenging stare, all haughty disdain and thinly-veiled amusement.

“Hardly wedding-appropriate,” he drawls, turning slowly, and John feels hot, and reckless.

_ “We’re _ hardly wedding-appropriate,” he breathes, and Sherlock grins.

“True,” he agrees, turns to the salesman. “I’ll take it. But not for the wedding,” he adds, smile turning dark and sensuous as the velvet.

Definitely illegal, John thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These short ones are WAY harder than they look, but I'm enjoying the practice :-D
> 
> SEE CHAPTER 31 FOR ARTWORK!


	11. Handle (BAMF John Watson, oneshot humor)

Sherlock watched as Lestrade examined the metal bevel on the door from every angle, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he started looking around for which patch of floor would be the most acceptable to sit on. 

“If we can get something under it...” Lestrade said, for the third time.

“And what might that something be?” Sherlock inquired, and having found a drier area, slid down the wall to the ground and crossed his legs in front of him. Lestrade frowned.

“Don’t you have… I dunno, some wire sewn into the seam of your coat, or something like that?

“Don’t you?”

Lestrade huffed, turning back to the door and crouching again. 

It was mildly irritating, Sherlock considered, to be locked into a small, damp basement - even though he knew they wouldn’t be there for very long. Lestrade had just about had an aneurysm once he realized there was no handle on this side of the door - right after he had slammed it closed. However to Sherlock’s view, they were in no great danger: there was plenty of air, the extremely violent miscreants that had been chasing them with intent to chop them into tiny pieces and throw said pieces into the Thames were safely on the other side of the door, and, quite stupidly, self-same miscreants had laughed at their predicament and knuckle-dragged themselves away, rather than come tearing into the room to finish what they had started. 

No, the main thing that was causing the irritation was the lack of John, and the abundance of Lestrade. 

“Maybe if we hit it at an angle, this piece will come loose and we can get at the lock?” the inspector mused.

“A supreme suggestion as ever, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, resting his clasped hands on his thighs and closing his eyes. “Aside from two minor drawbacks. One, we don’t have anything to hit it with, and two, there is no lock. We are not ‘locked in’, there just isn’t a handle on this side.”

He could  _ feel  _ Lestrade glaring at him. A moment’s blessed relief, then,

“So if John can get to us, he doesn’t need a key? He can just… open it?”

“Oh, I highly doubt that John will ‘just open it’,’ Sherlock said, mouth curling upwards into a smile. 

Thankfully, Lestrade left him alone for a while, pacing the width and breadth of their little sanctuary while grinding his teeth. Sherlock had quite an interesting twenty minutes in a little-used room of his mind palace, researching the relative strengths of tooth-enamel of different species and theorising on how long Lestrade had until he completely wore his away… but was rather rudely interrupted. 

“How can you be so calm!” Lestrade hissed, and with a put-upon sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes again. The man was standing next to him now, hands on hips, looking down and grimacing. 

“I could ask you a similar question - why are you so worked up?”

“Worked up!” Lestrade barked, incredulous. “We’re trapped in a basement, there are a bunch of psychopaths on the other side of that door, and  _ John  _ is stuck out there with them!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, musing for a moment if he should be a bit more concerned… but no. It seemed situation normal. 

“Lestrade,” he drawled, squinting up at the irate inspector, “You have it quite backwards, you know.  _ We  _ are  _ safe  _ in a basement. There are a bunch of cro-magnonic thugs on the other side of that door, and  _ they  _ are stuck out there with  _ John.” _

Right on cue, there was a sudden banging noise from what might be the next room, followed by a sharp and urgent scream - abruptly cut-off. 

“Well,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands together then using the wall to get back to his feet, “Fun though this has been, I think we should be getting ready to make a move.”

“What?” Lestrade said, the sound apparently an automatic response to sudden changes in situation and context. Sherlock had previously wondered if anyone had done a study on this trend, as he continued to witness it in various other law-enforcement officials… 

Something banged suddenly against the door causing it to wobble, and there was some muffled, panicked shouting. Then some kind of low growl, and the shouting increased in both pitch and volume. Lestrade backed away from the door, and Sherlock watched him with mild curiosity as he seemed to get into what he thought was a fighting stance. Sherlock could have had him flat on his back with three… no, two, moves… but John would definitely give him  _ the look _ if he did that. 

Might even punish him with a ‘trip to the shops’. 

Ugh. 

The shouting was at head-height at this point, but then there were a few more bangs and a sound like something hitting wet-cement, and the shouting morphed into a rather damp gurgle that drifted slowly downwards, until it stopped around shoe level. 

Lestrade was almost pressed against the opposite wall by that point. 

“Sherlock, Greg, you in there?” came John’s voice, muted by the door. 

“Yes, John,” Sherlock said, just as Lestrade shouted, 

_ “JOHN!” _

He at least managed to look embarrassed when Sherlock gave him a pained look. 

“You two alright?” John asked through the door, solicitously. There was a rattle, then some mild swearing; of the kind he used when they ran out of teabags, or Sherlock changed all his social media passwords. 

“Fine, fine,” Sherlock said, approaching the door. “I wonder if, in your enthusiasm, the mechanism has gotten jammed?”

“Yeah looks like…”

John’s voice cut off as a new voice sounded, low and threatening but words indistinguishable through the door. There was some kind of discussion going on, and even at this distance Sherlock could tell it was full of the kind of rabid machismo that would put two competing silverback gorillas to shame. 

_ Dull.  _

“He’ll just be a moment,” Sherlock assured Lestrade, wandering away from the door to join him on the opposite wall. “You know, it’s interesting - this kind of herringbone brickwork you can see in the wall here, isn’t usually found in buildings of this…”

“What are you  _ talking  _ about?! John is in real trouble!”

Sherlock sighed again, giving any thought of an intellectual discussion up for lost. 

There were a few more uncoordinated thumps and some shouts - one person sounding quite amused and the other, far less so. Then there was a kind of rhythmic banging sound accompanied by a staccato pattern of speech, which Sherlock could identify as a John Watson really wanting to make sure his point was being comprehensively understood. In fact, it went on for so long that he thought they might even hear a… 

“AAAAAAARRRGH!!!” 

The scream had come after a very particular kind of cracking sound, and Sherlock hummed to himself, making a mental note that John was going to need a fresh packet of chocolate hobnobs from the corner shop on the way home to deal with all the excess energy. 

Footsteps once again approached the door, in counterpoint to some hysterical crying, then John called out to them again:

“You away from the door?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock called back, grabbing Lestrade by the wrist lest he decide to do something even more idiotic than usual. 

Two loud bangs that could only be gunshots, and the metal bevel on the door exploded inwards. The door itself soon followed, bouncing off its hinges, flying open to reveal John lowering his raised leg and looking grumpy. 

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said unnecessarily. He walked over to him, stepping over a slumped figure and narrowly avoiding an unfortunately placed pool of blood. He took John by both biceps, peering at him closely and giving him the once-over. Ah. 

“They had your gun,” he said, letting go and looking down the hall at another restrained and snivelling offender. 

“Yeah, ambushed me four-to-one,” John said darkly. “Bastards.”

Lestrade had arrived at the doorway and was surveying the scene, mouth agape. 

“Two here, one in the room next door - and number four?” Sherlock asked, heading off down the hallway. John fell into step beside him. 

“Dropped him down the old lift shaft,” John remarked. 

“You… you dropped someone down a lift shaft,” Lestrade asked faintly from somewhere behind them. 

“Seems fitting,” said Sherlock approvingly, and knew John would be smiling his grim smile. 

“You can’t do things like that, John!” Lestrade said, hurrying to keep up. 

“Oh he can; he’s quite capable,” Sherlock assured him. 

Lestrade made some kind of choking noises as he tried to articulate his response to that. Sherlock looked over at John as they reached the stairs back to civilization. John’s eyes were sparkling, and there was a familiar naughtiness to the smirk on his lips as they began to climb - the spluttering inspector following them all but forgotten. Sherlock felt his pulse quicken at the implications of that smirk. 

Maybe even  _ two  _ packets of hobnobs, he thought happily. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these two idiots <3


	12. Swimming (oneshot, regency, Merlock)

John carefully picked his way over the seaweed-covered rocks, holding the bottle tightly to his chest with one hand, while throwing his other out occasionally for balance. There was a secluded cove just around the bay from the main estate, and he needed privacy for what he was about to do. His riding boots were not the best footwear for this expedition, and his summer breeches and white cotton shirt were not the best attire - but his ruse had depended on the other residents believing that he was going horse-riding, and so he bore the chill and danger of a twisted ankle with great fortitude. 

He turned into the cove, where the water seemed calm, for once. The local villagers had plenty of legends about the place - that a sea-monster lived in the caves known to be hidden there, under the water. That it would reach up with its slimy tentacles, and pull down any fair maid (or gentleman) who happened to stray too close. That the waters which churned with rage and passion during high-tide were really the spit of the great beast, seething with rage at its lair being disturbed in such a manner…

John scrambled around the edge of the water, slipping and sliding but keeping his footing by some miracle. He was heading for one rock that jutted further out into the water than the rest. He felt it was the only place around that had the right amount of drama and tragedy about it to accomplish the task he had set himself. 

Finally, he reached his goal. The rock was weathered and beaten from centuries of tides, but still stood strong. John walked out to the very edge; the water around who-knew how many fathoms deep, dark and foreboding. John took the bottle that he had carried all the way here in both his hands. It was empty, save for a roll of paper, which was protected by both cork and wax. How John had suffered over the writing of those lines! How his soul had wept in their construction!

Breathing in deeply, John tasted the salt of the sea from those melancholy waves. He held the bottle aloft, the weak glow of the sun from behind the clouds serving to create an appropriate ambience. 

“Sarah!” John cried, aquiver with passion, “Though our fates now lead us to part, I will keep your countenance, your fortitude, and the shadow of your smile forever engraved upon my heart. This poetry, these scribbles, are too rough, too coarse, to give to you in this life. Perhaps as I surrender them now to the sea, one day, you will receive them. I signed them with my name, so that if they are ever to reach your hand, you might think of me.”

John brought the bottle back to his chest, held it there for a moment, almost overcome. Then he raised the glass to his lips, kissed it, drew back his arm and allowed it to sail forth from his hand. It disappeared into the water with a mighty splash, some twenty meters or more out into the cove. 

With a great sigh, John nodded to himself for a difficult job well-done, and turned to make his way back to the shore. 

“Oi!”

Turning in surprise, John was extremely lucky not to be hit in the face by a flying projectile, which smashed onto the rock not a meter from him. He stared in shock at the glittering remains of his glass bottle and the paper laying in amongst them, then looked out in the direction it had appeared from… nothing…

“Who do you think you are, throwing your litter into my cove?” came a sneering voice from the other side of the rock. John took two hurried steps and peered down into the water - still nothing.

“Humans, all the same! You just see the place where the land meets the sea, don’t you?” Two quick steps in the new direction of the voice - still nothing, but the water was moving in circles as if disturbed from below. “Rich landowner’s son, fresh back from his first military posting, treating my home with such contempt!” the voice shouted, there and gone too fast for John to see anything except shadows. “You see, but you do not observe,” continued the tirade, now from behind John, and he whipped around just in time to see… was that a fin…?

“And… and what would I observe, were I possessed of keener intellect?” John ventured, unsure of where to direct his question.

There was silence, and for a moment John considered he may have imagined the whole thing, may have taken ill somewhere along his walk and be hallucinating, when,

“A human would need the keenest intellect indeed to behold the true wonders of the deep,” came the voice, and John slowly turned in place. 

There was a man swimming in the water. He had the palest skin John had ever seen - sparkling, almost like it was dusted with a thousand tiny scales. His hair was black as coal and twisted into rough braids, revealing two delicately pointed ears. The face was sharp - almost human, but with something… faster, smoother about it. And the eyes… The man had the ocean echoed inside his eyes. He seemed completely at ease in the water, arms spread out languidly beside him, apparently floating there half in and half out of the waves with no effort required at all. He appeared to be naked, though John could only see down to his waist, and he hastily averted his eyes after realizing he had been staring for too long. 

“Forgive me, sir,” John said hurriedly, feeling a blush stain his cheeks. “I did not know anyone was in the area. It was not my intent to disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” echoed the man, anger still lacing his tone. “You threw your unwanted detritus into my home with nary a thought as to the outcome. Why, perhaps I should take a visit your manor house, and throw a starfish through the parlor window!”

John felt some mortification over the surprised laugh that escaped him at that, though he tried to stifle it. 

“My irritation amuses you?” asked the man, coldly, and John could not help but raise his eyes. He had swum closer now, and was glaring at John with thinly-veiled disdain. 

“I’m sorry,” John said, lips still twitching. “I was merely amused by your turn of phrase. Truly, you are possessed of a very quick wit.”

The pale man blinked those strange, liquid eyes, clearly taken aback. 

“That’s not what people normally say,” he mumbled, for the first time appearing less than one hundred-percent confident. 

“What do people normally say?” John asked, curious, though cognizant of it being an improper question. 

_ “‘Back, foul beast’,” _ the man said, moving back slightly through the water as though expecting the same from John. Instead, John grinned, and upon seeing it, the man’s eyebrows shot closer towards his tangled hair. He floated a little closer. “Why is it you say I am possessing of a quick wit?”

“Well, you looked at me and seemed to know everything about me with only that look - from my background to my upbringing to my residence.”

“Obvious,” the man said, drifting closer still, bringing his hands around to rest his fingertips against the rock that John stood upon. “I can tell a man’s background from the cut of his hair, his residence from the roll of his hip. Though I must admit,” and here his voice grew speculative, “There may be more to you than I beheld upon my first observation…” He rose a little from the water as if to see John more clearly, waist rising out of the water, and John turned his eyes away or else risk betraying his modesty. “You are also a healer,” the man said, slipping back into the water with a splash that signalled it was safe for John to look again. “Tell me, healer,” the pale man said, “but why should a man such as yourself take to disposing of his trinkets with so little regard - to sully the home of another?”

“Truly, you are possessed of a great mind indeed, to be able to know me so well upon first acquaintance,” John said, marvelling. “But forgive me, where is your home? My family estate runs right up to the shore, and there are no dwellings save the village for miles around. Surely I would have seen you there, if that is where you live?”

The man sighed, trailing his long white fingers through the surface of the water. “You disappoint me, healer,” he said, shaking his head, water droplets whipping off of his hair. “Surely you can observe the facts of the case with a more perceptive eye than that.”

John frowned, then attempted to do as he was asked. He took in the hair, the ears, the unusual bone-structure. The skin which glittered strangely, appearing rougher the longer the man remained above the water line. The eyes, large and somehow deep; the eyes that spoke of old currents and secret depths…

John gasped. “You… you’re…”

“Mmmm, yes,” the man said, a pleased yet predatory smile gracing his face. 

“You’re…  _ merfolk…” _

“Indeed,” agreed the man, and now the smile widened to reveal two sharply pointed incisors. “Though you need not fear me, healer. It is true that you awakened my ire at first by your boorish and thoughtless actions… but now, I confess myself intrigued. Why was an intelligent man such as yourself throwing a bottle into the sea in the first place?” 

John tried to bring his racing heart back under his control. It was true - he had always believed the stories of merfolk to be a myth, along with the village stories of the monster of the cove. But he was also a man of science, a man of fact and evidence. And all of the available evidence was telling him that this man was unlike any he had ever met. 

“I… well… I’m sure you will think me a fool…”

“Oh, most certainly,” agreed the man, but upon John’s frown added, “Oh, don’t look like that, almost everyone is. I would still hear your reasoning, if you will permit me.”

“Well… there was a young lady, you see. I courted her before my deployment, and believed she would wait until my return, and then accept my offer of marriage. Unfortunately, it is not to be, as she has given her hand to another.”

“All very fascinating,” said the man, sounding anything but fascinated. “But what has this to do with projectile glass bottles?”

“I… I wrote my feelings on the matter… just a few lines, really… and it was my intention to allow them to roam the ocean, sealed in a glass bottle, until perhaps they were read by another in a far-off land, who might have some small sympathy for my misfortunes.”

The man stared at him, then the corners of his mouth curled up, then he gave one small laugh, and another… until he was laughing harder and with more abandon than John had ever seen on anyone before - so much so that he actually disappeared back into the water before reemerging, drenched and smooth again and snorting with uncontrolled mirth. At first, all John could feel was wounded indignation upon receiving such a reaction… but as the stranger’s laughter continued, he discovered it to be infectious. Then he too was laughing, laughing so hard he had to sit down on the rock or else risk tumbling into the sea. 

“I supposed,” he gasped out once he was able, hand gripping the stitch in his side, “That perhaps I was being a tad over-dramatic.”

“A tad!” the man crowed gleefully, back now to lean against the rocks just under John’s feet. “I should say so! I almost wish I had kept it now… can I read it?” 

“What? No!”

But it was too late - a wave whipped up from the surface and whisked the paper away from his outstretched hand before John could grasp it. He stared in surprise at the empty patch of rock before turning back to his companion, who was now reading from the paper with amused interest. 

“My my my,” he mused, eyes scanning the page. “You did have some emotions in need of an outlet, didn’t you?” John felt himself flush with mortification, but the man merely finished reading, and smiled. He held it out for John to take, and John did so, confused. 

“You don’t want to keep it?” he asked.

“No,” said the man, smiling more kindly now. “I was merely missing one piece of vital information about you, one that I could not part from you today without knowing.”

“And what is that?”

_ “John Watson,” _ the man said, rolling it off his tongue as someone might a forbidden spell in a forgotten language. John blushed again, though this time it was not with embarrassment. The way the man had said his name created a heat in him that chased off the chill of the ocean breeze. “Among my people,” the man went on, “it is customary to learn the names of those humans whom we will sing to.”

“Sing?” asked John, bracing his hand on the rock and leaning a little closer. 

“Hmmm, yes. Sometimes, if a human intrigues us enough, we sing songs of the far-off fathoms to them, to see if they prove worthy. In all my years of visiting this cove, I have never seen the likes of you. You are not shallow like your ilk and like the coast: you carry deep waters within you, too.”

“I am not so very different than anyone else in this region,” John demurred, but the pale man merely smiled again, rising from the water by bracing his hands upon the rock. John saw then that where one would suppose his legs to start, his body merged instead into a great and undulating tail - as if of a deep-sea fish the likes of a sailor’s stories. The man saw his appreciative glance, and leaned to the side, bringing the huge tail to the surface of the water for John to admire. It glistened with a hundred shades of blue and green, scales becoming much larger and akin to the jewels of royalty. The large final fin came to two delicate points, the edges appearing tattered, and the transparent membrane of the appendage flowed in the currents of the water as the most delicate of seaweed. John was overcome with the desire to touch it, hands gripping the rock tightly in order to refrain. 

“You are different, John,” the man said. “The sun shines on you and emerges differently, as it does through the layers of the ocean on a summer afternoon. You are a conductor of light, deserving of a more grand adventure than a doomed engagement to a vapid human.” 

The pale man reached out one hand and curled his long fingers around John’s wrist. His touch was not cold as John had expected. Instead it was warm, with a discernable pulse even throughout his very fingertips. John stared at their joined hands, then to the man’s face. 

“Shall I sing to you, John?” the vision said, voice low but as powerful as the waves of a storm. “Shall I sing to you, of places and creatures and battles, the like of which you have never possibly imagined?”

“If you do sing to me,” John asked, feeling a strange calm come over him in this extraordinary moment, “I know that it will be the end of this life - the one I know now. Will I be born again, to join you on your grand adventures… or will my bones become one with the cold ocean floor?”

The pale man looked at him very closely, then. Looked over his face, his hands, his arms. Looked into his eyes, looked into  _ him. _

“Not all survive the experience,” he admitted softly, rising even further until his nose was almost touching John’s. John could see every whorl inside his irises, see the second set of transparent lids that protected such marvels, see intrigue and excitement and danger and  _ want. _ “However… I do believe that you will.”

John considered that. For a brief moment, he looked back along the rocky shore. Back to where he had left his horse, back down the country lane, back to the large house with the disinterested parents, the small suitcase of belongings, the goodbye letter from Sarah. 

He turned back to look at the stranger, whose face now betrayed some small measure of anxiety. 

“What’s your name?” John asked. The man blinked, face blank for a moment, but then a smile of such genuine joy broke out that John would have to redefine his measures of what constituted beauty. 

“Sherlock,” said the man, and it was John’s turn to smile. 

“Sherlock… will you sing to me?” 

And so, Sherlock sang. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for some Merlock so I had to write this one!


	13. Salt (oneshot, love letter, listicle, Valentine)

For John:

Ten Types of Salt, and You.

  1. Himalayan Black Salt: Often used in vegan recipes in order to mimic the taste of eggs, it is made by combining rock salt charcoal, herbs and seeds in a furnace for 24 hours. It goes into the heat, and emerges with the ability to mimic something else. You have told me of your time in the heat of the desert, John. When I met you, you were mimicking someone common, normal, _dull._ I’m glad you have allowed me to see your true composition. 
  2. Smoked Salt: Cold-smoked with wood for up to two weeks, used to add a flame-grilled flavor. For all your time out in the heat, there is a hidden coldness to you, John. When you are angry, it is not with the uncontrolled flame of the fire, but with the icy burn of the cold. Your smile, when truly angry, speaks of smouldering coals, banked and waiting. Is it wrong to be enamoured of this part of you as well? Probably. 
  3. Hawaiian Red Salt: Mixed with iron oxide-rich red volcanic clay. Perhaps the most striking of all the salts: red, vibrant, uncanny. The few times I’ve seen you really lose control, John, then this rings true for you as well. Red: the flush, the eyes, the blood. Vibrant: are you ever more alive than in those moments? Uncanny: you look like you, but you are not you - you are the thing that makes volcanoes rumble. 
  4. Sea Salt: The most basic of the salts that come from the sea, it can be ground very fine, or left rougher depending on the application. Just like you; you who fit in anywhere, from living room to morgue, from army based to pub, from opera house to alleyway, from the clinic to my bed. I prefer you there, of course, but your flexibility does provide us many entertaining options. 
  5. Black Hawaiian Salt: Known for its strong, earthy flavor. This one is you when you’re ‘down the pub’ with your mates - from the army, from rugby, from the Yard. This is you when you let go a little and go back to your roots. Working class, rough, like good dirt in an ancient field. It doesn’t distance you from me at all: it’s just another of your flavors. 
  6. Flake Salt: Harvested from sea water, it appears light and thin in the form of tiny pyramids. One of the most expensive salts, found sprinkled on luxury chocolates. It’s brittle, and bright, and beautiful - high quality, in tiny pieces. Will you be insulted if I declare this describes you to a tee? Forgive me, as I have always had a penchant for the finer things in life.
  7. Celtic Grey Sea Salt: The grey colour comes from the minerals that are left behind when seawater evaporates. You have more than once bemoaned the greying of your hair to me - but I tell you this - it is the precious thing that is left behind when the sun has burned all the rest away. It is the essence of you that is a gift to make the world taste better. 
  8. Himalayan Pink Salt: The purest of all salt, containing all eighty-four minerals found in the human body. This one knows us, inside and out, it knows what we are made of, literally, and in that knowing, it is pure. This one is you as a healer, John. You know all eighty-four minerals found in people - you know all eighty-four that are found in me. 
  9. Fleur de Sal: From the coast of Brittany, this is a moist, sticky, salt. Do I need more words to explain to you what this puts me in mind of? Shall I write of tastings in the dark, of the salt that lives within, of lips and thighs and skin and sighs….
  10. Pickling Salt: This coarse salt is only used in pickling, which involves anaerobic fermentation - in other words, the preservation of something while it is being fundamentally changed. The appearance may stay the same, but inside, it is different. John, from the first day I met you, I was different. I am forever changed by my reaction to you. 



Salt is essential to life.

As you are apparently similar to at least ten different types of it, we may conclude you to be similarly indispensable. 

14/02/2021

SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock had strong opinions that this prompt be written this way - and there is no arguing with him, sometimes x


	14. Boss (221B, roleplay, mature)

We’d been undercover all week - the doe-eyed ditzy intern, and his controlling, dour boss. Several older men in the building had suggested that poor unappreciated Sherlock go and work for them instead - inviting him into their offices, unwittingly giving him access to everything he was after. He would emerge from these interludes looking as immaculate as ever, but part of my brain was snarling…  _ mine.  _

Now the case was over…

“Who do you work for?” I asked coldy, reprising our roles as soon as our door was closed. A blush rose against his cheeks.

“You, sir,” he breathed. 

I crowded him into the corner, gripped his arms in my hands, thrilled in the tremble I felt within his limbs. 

“Didn’t look like it today,” I growled, stepping forward until our bodies were flush together. His breath caught as he felt my arousal. “Looked like you were willing to  _ work  _ for anyone.”

He shook his head. “No, sir. I only work for you.”

“If you want to keep working for me,” I said, rolling my hips against him and sliding a foot in between his, “Then you better learn to show me more respect.”

“Oh yes, please, sir. Allow me to show you,” he said, gasping. 

I decided that I would allow it. He is after all very pretty when he begs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized that I’ve been getting 221B’s wrong - I thought the last letter of the last word had to be a B, not the first letter of the last word… I’ll leave the old ones as they are, but now I know :-D


	15. Ugly (poem, Sherlock Holmes needs a hug, developing S/J)

[](https://ibb.co/bXy4G63)

(For those with screenreaders: the image is of a collection of carnival masks, all different colours. They look sparkly and beautiful but lifeless and cold.)

There’s art to it; the costuming, the make-up and the pose;  
To be another person so complete that no-one knows;  
That underneath the wig and all the powder and bent-back,  
There lurks a sleek imposter getting ready to attack.

The rags all come in handy when I’m playing to the rich;  
The fools don’t see me looking, stealing, search or make a switch.  
I dress this lowly body with just one purpose in mind;  
That it may take me closer to the truth I need to find.

But you saw through the costume - not the ones I wear to hide;  
The one I put on every day - the coat with blue-scarf tied.  
You saw the thing for what it was - a wall, a shell, a shield -  
You also saw the ugly thing I thought I had concealed. 

Concealed, or not seen clearly? It’s hard now for me to tell;  
This unattractive transport that I thought I knew so well...  
You disagreed completely, asked me why I couldn’t see,  
That thing that’s in the mirror is perfect - because it’s me. 

I don’t think that I’ll ever see myself the way you do;  
No matter how you chide me to believe you that it’s true,  
“You’re beautiful,” you say, as if it’s undisputed fact,  
We compromise, eventually - I offer you a pact:

I will not say I’m ugly; will not speak the word aloud,  
I’ll keep my Belstaff costume and my posture cold and proud,  
But when we’re in our private place and no-one else can see,  
I’ll cast him off, that Sherlock Holmes, and give to you - just me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of this one?


	16. Argument (drabble, angst)

My old RAMC mug is in pieces on the floor. 

Maybe I should care more about that, but all I can think about is your face as you threw it - as it left your fingers, before it hit the wall. Your face cracked open too - shattered. You couldn’t believe you’d done it, wanted to take it back, even as it was happening. But you can’t take it back, Sherlock. And I can’t take back what I said to push you to it. Now you’re gone...

If you come back home, I’ll try my best to put you both back together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never tried writing a drabble (exactly 100 words), give it a try - they're a really good exercise in editing!


	17. Trinket (oneshot)

“Excuse me - mind if I sit here?”

Sherlock looked up, irritated. He was sitting in the corner of a tiny tea-shop in Wistleworth village, soaked to the skin, with a broken waterlogged phone and in no mood to make idle conversation - not that he ever was in that mood. He glared at the stranger, barbs lined up and ready to go on his tongue, but…

The man looked at him apologetically. He had piercing blue eyes, and was wearing what Sherlock thought of as the ‘country uniform’ - all tweeds and green canvas. This was probably why he looked slightly better off on the drowned-rat scale than Sherlock did, but it was a close-run thing. He was also leaning rather heavily on a carved wooden walking stick.

Sherlock frowned, reconsidered… gestured to the empty seat at the spindly table. The place was packed; peak district tourists having flooded in to escape the downpour, much as he had. It was one of those excruciatingly twee affairs, covered with bits and pieces of faded lace, mounted china plates, and random bits of Victoriana. Sherlock wouldn’t usually be caught dead in such an establishment, but in his excitement at solving the case this morning he had dashed out of the inn into the summer heat, leaving his Belstaff behind and stupidly assuming that the weather would hold. 

The stranger settled himself on the wooden chair, gave him one curious glance, then started surveying the room. The little table was too small to get their legs under it, so they were both facing the hubbub of people. Sherlock looked back at the scene again as well, wondering what the other was seeing. There - three local old ladies, chattering about the scandal at the flower-arranging club, as unbeknownst to two of them the third had instigated the whole thing out of petty revenge. By the cake counter, an adulterous couple, calm facades cracking the more and more people tried to squeeze into the space and unknowingly behold their secret rendezvous. By the door, a group of American tourists, exclaiming loudly over how ‘quaint’ and ‘charming’ everything was. Their current focus was a set of cameo brooches - which even from his seat at the back of the room, Sherlock could see were plastic fakes. 

“Got caught out in it?” the stranger enquired. Sherlock snapped his attention back to him, shifting in his seat awkwardly as his clothes were still clinging to his skin. 

“Yes, obviously,” he snapped, but the man only chuckled. He had an open, kind face, but the more Sherlock observed, the more his interest was reluctantly peaked. 

“You aren’t from around here,” he said, then wondered at himself - he was not the type of person to engage in idle chatter, and definitely not with strangers. 

“Why do you say that?” the man asked, still smiling. 

“Your clothes - they smack of country living, but are of a more antiquated style than the residents in this county tend to sport. Your tan says that you work outside, and forgive me but the faint odour around you tells me you work with cattle. There are no cattle farms in this vicinity, if I’m not mistaken.”

The stranger’s smile got, if possible, even wider. 

“Amazing!” he said. He had been holding his stick off to one side, but now he maneuvered it so it was in front of him, resting both hands on the top and leaning forwards. “You’re right, I’m from the next village west of here. What else?”

“You… you want to hear more?” Sherlock asked, incredulous but pleased. He tried to tamp it down.

“Oh, definitely! This is the most interesting conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

“Well… you are an amputee, and you need, if I may say so, an immediate upgrade to your prosthesis. You are not a man without funds, and yet you haven’t spent it on the latest developments in artificial limbs. It’s possible that are merely not the kind to spend extravagantly on himself - more likely, you are involved in some sort of financial dispute. Over land?”

“Hah! Right on the nose! Yes, I had been feuding with the neighboring landowner for quite some time - he was of the opinion that his land ran right down to the weir that divided the two plots. However, according to the deeds, an acre on the opposite side belonged to me as well... though the situation was ultimately resolved.” The man still did not seem perturbed at all, and Sherlock felt compelled to continue the conversation. It had been a long time since anyone had wanted to listen to him for this long. 

“You lost your leg while on the front lines - Afghanistan, or Iraq?”

The man looked a little confused at this. “How do you know I was on the front lines?”

“Your posture,” Sherlock explained. “Even when sitting, your posture is a sure sign that you served in the military. Injuries involving explosives - which I assume, yours did - are more likely to happen in the thick of the fighting.”

“Amazing,” the man said, grinning, and Sherlock smiled before he realized what he was doing. He tried to force his expression back to annoyed, but the effect was ruined as he was suddenly overcome with sneezing. He realized then that he was far colder than he had realized - and soaked to the bone still. Looking around the tearoom in embarrassment as he sneezed again into his elbow, he realised no-one else was in quite the state he was. In fact, some had removed their jumpers and were acting like it was warm in there. 

Hateful. 

He looked back at his companion, who was watching him sympathetically. “Best to dry off, before you catch your death,” he said, tone concerned. 

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, and the man nodded, though obviously unconvinced. Sherlock looked a little closer, then. While the man was quite damp, he was nowhere near as badly off as Sherlock. His silver-blond hair hung close to his head, but wasn’t still dripping as Sherlock’s was. The man who owned the tearoom had been aghast at the state of Sherlock while ignoring the other man entirely - probably because he wasn’t leaving his own puddle to spread over the floor. The hair was cut unevenly - quite a bit shorter on one side than the other. 

“You’re barely damp,” Sherlock commented, frowning. There weren’t any buildings around, that was how he had gotten so soaked while walking between the crime scene and his inn. “How…”

“I’ve had longer to dry off,” the man said with a chuckle. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“...Sherlock Holmes,” he said, trying to remember the last time anyone had asked. “And you?”

“John Watson,” he said, smiling again. Sherlock wondered if he should shake his hand, but John’s remained firmly on the top of his walking stick. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is?” Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself. He fancied that the blush rising in his cheeks was causing all the rainwater to turn into clouds of steam around him. 

“Absolutely,” John said, tapping his stick on the floor to punctuate his statement. “I don’t get to talk to a lot of people.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Oh, you know,” said John airily, gaze wandering around the crowded little place. “I’m not usually noticed… what do you think of this place?”

“Oh… I… it’s… fine,” Sherlock stammered, thrown by the abrupt topic change. 

John laughed, and it was a warm, friendly sound. Sherlock found himself smiling again, a foreign feeling, especially doing it so much in one day.

“You’re a terrible liar,” said John, and there was something almost affectionate in his tone. 

Sherlock wondered if telling John that he frequently lied and pretended to be other people was going to play to his favor or not… then wondered why he cared what this man thought of him. 

“OK, it’s awful,” Sherlock said, and John laughed harder. Sherlock started to laugh too, feeling a little punch-drunk, but then a shudder went through his body as the cold seemed to close in once again. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” John said, smile dropping from his face. “I keep forgetting you’re cold… well, Mr. Holmes, there are some things in this place worth looking at. It’s not all fake.”

Sherlock frowned, confused. 

“You mean… the plates, jewelry…”

“Yes,” John agreed, nodding earnestly. “A lot of it is junkstore crap, but a few of these trinkets… they hold some real value.”

“Ok…?”

There was an uptick in the general chatter, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the other patrons. Apparently the rain had finally stopped, and many were getting ready to depart with their respective groups. He felt a sudden pang, even as the warm air rolled in from the now-open doors, and a strong compulsion to stay with the stranger a while longer. 

“John…”

He stared at the empty chair. Raised his head, looked towards the door, where the people were still crowding out - but no John Watson, and no way he could have gotten past them. He glanced towards the counter, craned his neck to see if there was a way out there - no. 

John had…

Vanished…

But that wasn’t possible...

He jumped up from his chair, slipping slightly on the water on the floor, stared at the completely dry area around John’s seat. Took the two steps to the counter. 

“Can I help you sir?” asked the owner. 

“The man - the man who was sitting there, with me - where did he go?”

“What man?”

“The man! The man - John Watson - he was sitting right there, talking to me. You must have seen him.”

The man behind the counter looked a bit worried. 

“Sorry sir. I saw you sitting there, waiting out the storm, but I didn’t see anyone sitting with you.”

Sherlock glared at him, running out of patience. 

“If I was sitting there alone, then who was I talking to?”

“I… sir, you weren’t talking. You… I actually thought you were meditating or something like that. You were just… sitting.”

“What?!” Sherlock put both hands on the glass counter. “Are you seriously telling me you saw no one?” 

“Yes, sir,” said the man, then swallowed and plastered on what he probably thought was a good customer service face. “Can I… can I get you something, to take with you? We have the cakes here, or maybe a souvenir?”

Sherlock glanced down into the display, confused and starting to get a headache. He was feeling much warmer now, and wished something would start making sense. 

“No, I don’t want a bloody cake, or…” 

He stopped, stared. 

“...souvenir…”

There were strings of plastic pearls, paste gems, useless miniature figurines, plastic brooches and other assorted trinkets - all strewn around cakes and biscuits to presumably give the effect that this tearoom was from another time. But one of the brooches…

“Wait,” he said, looking back at the man who now appeared less than friendly. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock blurted. “That… that brooch, there. Can I look at it?”

There was definitely some attitude now as the man pulled the brooch out and handed it to Sherlock to inspect, but Sherlock was well-used to that, and ignored it easily. 

This was not a fake. The brooch was rectangular, with an outer ring of garnets and an inner ring of real seed pearls. In the center, there was an intricate woven design - made of hair. 

Made of silver-blond hair. 

“How much is this?” Sherlock found himself asking, unable to take his eyes off of it. 

“Ah yes, good eye,” the owner said, begrudgingly. “A genuine Victorian mourning pin. That’s real hair, you know.”

“Yes, I am aware,” said Sherlock, coming back to himself and leveling the man with a withering look. “I asked how much it was?”

A few minutes later and he was standing in the afternoon sunshine outside the shop, brooch clutched in his hand, at a loss of what to do next. 

“Alright Ethel,” came a voice behind him. The three old ladies were slowly exiting the tearoom. “You just let us know that you got home safely.” 

Sherlock turned, regarded them thoughtfully. 

“Excuse me,” he asked, attempting to put on his most courteous smile and realizing what a state he must look, slowly drying out in the sunshine. “But you’re from around here?”

“Oh hello!” said one of the women amiably. “Well, Doris and I are from the village, but Ethel here is from the next village over.”

“West?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How are you getting there?”

In short order, he found himself accompanying Ethel on her bus ride home. She was a chatty, friendly sort, in general content to go on and on extolling the virtues and transgressions of her various grandchildren. Sherlock clung onto his patience almost as tightly as he clung onto the brooch in his hand. 

“And what takes you to our village?” Ethel asked after some time. “Chasing after a young lady?”

Sherlock fidgeted. 

“Ah,” said Ethel knowingly, and gave him a wink. “A young man, then.”

Sherlock gaped at her, and she laughed - it sounded quite the naughty laugh for a woman of her age. 

“Not… not young,” Sherlock stammered, wondering where all his usual poise had gone. 

“Tell me about him,” Ethel asked kindly. 

“I… well, he’s… I’m not sure, mid forties. Silver-blond hair,” and for the hundredth time he checked he was still holding the brooch. “Served in the military, only has one leg, walks with a limp.”

Ethel was frowning. 

“Doesn’t sound like anyone I know dear,” she said. “What’s his name?” 

“John Watson.”

“Watson…” Ethel mused. “Well, there’s Rosamund Watson. She owns the big dairy farm…”

“He said he worked with cattle,” Sherlock said, perking up. 

“Alright, but she’s around my age, dear,” Ethel said, patting his hand. “She hires people to take care of everything - it’s not good for her to be traipsing over that land, with the river and the weir and all.”

Sherlock suddenly felt cold again. 

“The weir?”

“Hmm, yes. Been a few poor souls lost to that weir. It looks a safe enough way to get across, you see, but it’s slippery and the water is fast and deep. There are a few sad stories about that weir.”

Ethel continued explaining about village life, but Sherlock was barely listening. Once they arrived, Ethel nudged him off the bus, pointing back down the road the way they had come. 

“If you want to go to the Watson farm, go back 5 minutes, turn left, and you’ll see it. Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock said, forcing his face into a smile. He wasn’t fine, didn’t even know what he was doing out here, miles from his room at the inn and his hot shower and soft bed. He nodded goodbye to Ethel, and set off back up the road. 

Soon enough he was walking down a much narrower lane. He could see a large farmhouse with extensive outbuildings on the horizon, and had just started thinking about what he could possibly say to the woman who lived there, when…

Water. The sound of running water. 

The road became a small bridge, crossing the babbling river as it tumbled over stones only a few feet below. To the left, towards the house, the river seemed narrow but overgrown and difficult to cross. To the right, it widened, and the land became more scrub-like. 

Sherlock got off the road, and started to follow it right. He walked and walked, head devoid of thoughts, though he felt very purposeful in his actions. It was like his body knew where it was going, and he didn’t need to give much input on the matter. At length, he found himself staring across a wide expanse of water on two levels. Above, it appeared limpid and calm. Below, thunderous and dangerous, a low weir in between the two. 

“So, what do you think?” John asked. He was standing next to Sherlock, leaning on his stick, staring out into the water. 

Sherlock was not afraid. He thought that perhaps he should be, but John just seemed so familiar, it was impossible to do so. He did however feel the chill again, though it was not as bad as earlier. 

“I think the landowner next to yours lured you down here somehow, perhaps asking for a reconciliation, or even an inspection of the deeds and land borders. I think he managed to pull you out onto the weir. I think he pushed you in. I think he pushed you into the water, and I think you drowned.”

“Oh, well done!” John cried, delighted, as though Sherlock had merely deduced another normal everyday detail about him. “You really are very good at this, you know.” 

“I’m a consulting detective,” Sherlock said, fully turning to look at the apparition at last. He looked far less solid now than he had in the tearoom - Sherlock could see the line of the horizon where it crossed over his torso. “But I’ve never been consulted by the murder victim before.”

“Ah, yes, sorry about that,” John said, but he didn’t appear or sound very sorry. He was smiling at Sherlock again, but now that smile was making Sherlock sad. “I couldn’t help trying - you are one of the very few people who has come into the tearoom and actually seen what was in front of them. Most people go their whole lives without doing that.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. 

“It was my daughter, you know,” John said, turning away again to stare at the rumbling water. “When they had found my body, ruled it an accident - she refused to believe it. Knew I wouldn’t be so stupid to go out there, with my leg and all. Very smart girl. It never went anywhere though. She’s the one who commissioned the mourning trinket that you’re carrying.”

Sherlock uncurled his palm. The edges of the brooch had caused indents to appear in his skin. 

“‘Course, she didn’t know I’d end up connected to the blasted thing,” John said, and again his words were harsh but his tone jovial. “Been haunting that tearoom for what seems like an age.”

Sherlock traced the tip of one finger over the fragile hair in the centre of the brooch. He looked up at John, who looked back, eyes soft. 

“Thank you for bringing me out of there,” John said quietly. Sherlock felt a sudden lump in his throat, tried to blink it away. 

“What… what happens now?” he asked. “I can tell the police, but without any evidence…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said John briskly. “The bastard is long dead anyway. No, best to leave that be. As for what happens now… I suppose you could chuck that ugly thing into the river...”

Sherlock’s hand tightened around it again convulsively.

“...or…”

“Or?” Sherlock demanded, unable to disguise the hope in his voice. 

“You said you’re a consulting detective?”

“Yes?”

“See a lot of trouble, violent deaths?”

“Yes,” confirmed Sherlock, confused. 

“Sounds like a man who could use some backup,” John mused, voice a little sly. 

“You… you mean…”

“You live in London, I’m guessing? Never been to London.”

“You… what? Never?” Sherlock said, for some reason hooked on this piece of information. 

“Not a lot of call for invalid ex-soldiers in London in my day,” said John, laughing. 

“When was that?” Sherlock asked, head spinning. 

“Oh, I died in… must have been eighteen ninety five. What year is it now?”

“Twenty twenty-one,” Sherlock said, faintly. This did not appear to put John off. 

“Is it really?” he crowed, delighted. “What marvels you must have!”

“Well… yes, I suppose…”

“Look, Mr. Holmes,” John said, tone suddenly serious. “I know that this is a lot to ask. Too much, probably… but I always felt like I was living someone else’s life. Like there was something else I was supposed to be doing… someone else I was supposed to be doing it with.”

He stepped towards Sherlock, and that familiar chill swept over him again, though now it was refreshing rather than unpleasant. 

“But,” John continued, “If you want to just throw that brooch into the water and be done with this, I wouldn’t blame you. I didn’t have a bad life, and I’m sure whatever comes next will be another kind of adventure. I leave it up to you.”

Sherlock stared at him, then out into the water. Looked down at the brooch in his hand, the silver-blond strands secured there, still gleaming after all this time. 

*********************  
“Oh good, you’re back. Post is here,” said Mrs. Hudson, bustling in and over to the mantlepiece. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said absently, still absorbed in the emails he had missed on his laptop. 

“There are some late bills in here, Sherlock,” she said, tone chiding as she put them down. “Make sure you pay those this week.”

“Yes, fine.”

“Oh, what’s this?”

Sherlock looked up, and saw that Mrs. Hudson was holding the little mourning brooch. He had found it a place on the mantel next to his skull. 

Pride of place, really. 

“Oh,” he said, feigning nonchalance. “Just a trinket, really. Another case souvenir.”

“A bit macabre,” Mrs. Hudson said, eyeing it closely and then setting it back down. Her tone was at first disapproving, but then she laughed as she took in everything else that was on display. “Fits in perfectly,” she said, heading back to the door. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a smile, glancing over at John who was reading from the open newspapers that Sherlock had spread out over the table for him. John glanced up, winked, went back to reading. “Fits in perfectly,” Sherlock echoed, and Mrs. Hudson hummed and went out, closing the door to 221B behind her.

[](https://ibb.co/c36PTTs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ran away from me a bit :-D


	18. Delusion (drabble, parentlock)

The thing that I don’t understand is how much effort it must take you to maintain this delusion. 

Your whole life revolves around being able to observe - to notice the little details in people, places, things - so surely, you must at least notice all your own tells. When you pick up the fuzzy bee that Rosie dropped (the one that you bought). When you hug Mrs. Hudson. When you smile on the rare occasions I deduce something correctly. 

“Sociopath,” you say, whenever anyone calls you on these things. 

_ Delusional, _ I think, and one day I’ll let you hear it, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah drabbles - my 100 word nemesis.


	19. Property (Omegaverse, 221B)

It terrified me, the first time I smelled you. 

You look so unassuming, I wasn’t prepared at all. I could smell you before you reached the lab - was staring at the door when Mike opened it. There was a moment there that I thought it was him, somehow, but then - there you were. 

It terrified me, because for the first time in my life, I wanted to belong to someone. You hadn’t said a word, yet my whole body thrummed,  _ yours, yours, yours.  _

I was your lost property, and you had come to collect me. You could have been a psychopath, a serial cheat, a fraudster - it wouldn’t have mattered, not one jot - because  _ I was yours. _

Of course, with greater exposure I managed to desentize myself a little, but on that first day if you’d have told me to burn that lab to the ground - I would have. 

Later, you told me that you had smelled me, too. Through the doors and the halls and even out on the street. You had known that something precious that belonged to you was waiting there; had been waiting, for so long. 

I know that I am not your property, because you wouldn’t have it so. I also know that however we choose to phrase it - it is with you that I belong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My very first foray into Omegaverse!
> 
> I also just posted chapter 1 of a brand new Johnlock fic, 'Octopus', so click on my name to get to my author page if you want to see more of me :-D


	20. Greece (oneshot, supernatural, horror)

“Keep you eyes fixed on me!” 

I stared up at you on that rooftop, willing you to stop this, to stop acting, shamming, faking. To be yourself,  _ be Sherlock Holmes. _ You wavered there, reaching out towards me, and for a terrifying second I thought -  _ that’s it, he’s going to fall. _

It’s not the fall that kills you.

You stepped off the edge, and I couldn’t breathe, my diaphragm seized up, phone slipping in my fingers. I muttered your name as you fell, unable to believe it…

… and then you  _ rose… _

The Belstaff was gone, replaced by those shadow-wings that I love so much, made of smoke and fire and  _ rage. _ Even from that distance I could see the red of your eyes, the snakes writhing in your hair. I knew then that there was something there, someone, a criminal that you would punish as only a Furie  _ can  _ punish someone. 

You flew to an adjacent building, smashed straight into a window, taking out much of the frame and wall surrounding with it as well. Cursing, I pocketed my phone and ran for the front door, where people were already trickling out, screaming. I had to shoulder my way past them, up the stairs and into the clouds of smoke that only got thicker the higher I climbed. Strangers were coughing and choking all around me, but I breathed easy - I was already used to breathing in your ire.

I heard the snarling and screaming that signalled I was on the correct floor and pulled out my gun, kicked in the door separating us, ready if I was needed.

A sniper!

His gun and tripod were bent and smashed into pieces by my feet, but I could see that there would have been no help for his initial target… no help… for  _ me… _

The black-clothed sniper himself would get no help either. He was cowering away from you but you had hold of one ankle with your sharp claws, and were pulling him inexorably closer to those jagged teeth you usually kept hidden. Your bat-like wings were looking tattered from their abrupt introduction to the window, and seeing your bright blue blood painting the floor made my own stir with hatred for the man before you. 

_ “Help me!” _ he cried, hyperventilating with terror, a bite wound already spilling blood from bicep to floor. The arm looked broken, his chest slashed, and I could picture you shaking him by the arm from side to side with your teeth, raking your claws across him.

You looked at me then, your other clawed hand raised. Your eyes were as smouldering coals, orange and red in the dark of the room, smoke continuing to billow around you to obscure us from the eyes of strangers. The glistening black snakes that wove through your hair turned to look at me too - hissing at first, then relaxing as they recognized me. Your chin was painted red with blood as you crouched over the man who would have murdered me. Your expression was hungry, but I knew what you were waiting for.

You were waiting for my permission. 

_ “Please!” _ the sniper cried.  _ “Please, _ don’t let it  _ hurt me!” _

I stared for a second more into your eyes - eyes that were ecstatic to be able to express all your pent up emotions after keeping them banked for so long behind your usual cool blue. You tilted your head, and I saw a flicker of a different kind of hunger then, and as your forked tongue emerged to lick the blood from your lips I thought - I would have you devour me, next. 

“Let?” I said, swinging my gaze back to the dead man on the floor. “No one  _ lets  _ Sherlock Holmes do anything. Were you committing a crime?”

The man started crying, and the snakes in your hair danced at the sound. You continued to watch me even as they turned back to view their prey. The sniper mutely nodded through his hysteria. Perhaps he thought it best to leave this life at least speaking the truth. I felt no pity for the man who would have stolen me from you. 

“Then you deserve to be punished,” I said, and you smiled in dark satisfaction before you pounced. 

The screams and flails of the sniper will not haunt me. Later, when we are home and you allow me to tend to your wounds, you’ll ask me, as you always do, if this was all wrong. If the darkness and rage is too much for me. 

If this side of you is ‘not good.’

“A bit not good,” I’ll say. 

And then I’ll kiss you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is on the list for expansion ;-)
> 
> Anyway, I also just posted:
> 
> [The Life of a Solitary Bee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29532396) which is a cute little Johnlock ficlet with accompanying artwork by alifetimeaheadtoprovethat, AND [Octpus part 1/3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29510544/chapters/72502791) which is a 3 part Johnlock tale with misunderstandings and enough eventual fluff to stuff a beanbag - accompanying art by freedomattack - so go check those out too <3


	21. Heels (ficlet, nonbinary character)

Sherlock perched on the corner of the bed, watching John carefully. They were sitting by the wall on the wooden chair, fists clenching, looking down at their feet with some skepticism. 

“Problem?”

John glanced up and scowled. 

“Of course there’s a bloody problem, Sherlock. Look how high these things are! I’m going to twist an ankle and break my face.”

“This is the pair you wanted,” Sherlock said, reasonably.

“I know.”

“The pair you took some pains to pick out.”

_ “I know!” _

Sherlock subsided for a moment, waiting. He could see John flexing and relaxing their calves, the dark blue of the stilettos bringing out the warmth of their skin tone. 

“If I may offer a suggestion?” he asked cautiously, once it became clear John was not going to stand up anytime soon. John sighed, but looked up at him, resigned. “Perhaps it is not the fear of falling that is preventing you… but rather, the fear that you won’t have enough support?”

John blinked. Considered. Blushed. 

Sherlock smiled, and, rising, he reached for John’s hands. John stared up at him for a moment, trepidation writ large across their face... before placing their hands in Sherlock’s. 

“Stand up, John,” Sherlock said. 

John swallowed, hesitated a moment more… but then, slowly, they stood. 

Sherlock held their hands as they took their first wobbly steps in the heels. They navigated their way from one wall to the other, and Sherlock held their hands the entire time. 

“Graceful,” John said sarcastically, once they were able to brace against the far wall; but there was a light in their blue eyes that Sherlock had never seen before. 

“Perhaps not yet,” Sherlock said softly, proudly. “But you’ll get there. Now,” and he gestured back at the chair, “Want to try a solo mission?”

John snorted, chuckled, lifted their joined hands and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles. They shifted their weight, getting ready to try again. 

Sherlock let go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to all my nonbinary friends <3


	22. Sigh (poem, angst, depression)

[ ](https://ibb.co/724fZs5)

(For those with screenreaders: the image is of one hand reaching down from the top of the frame, while another reaches out from the bottom of the frame. They are not touching, but there is a sense that if they keep reaching, they will.)

I sit with it, when you’re not here.

Your transport: left behind. 

I sit with it, to keep it safe,

Your bodyguard, assigned.

I sit with it, when you are gone,

To places cold and dark.

I sit with it, and wait for you,

Your glance, your smile, your spark. 

I sit with it, and I will wait,

Until I hear you sigh. 

I sit with it, and I will love,

I will not question why. 

I sit with it, ‘til it becomes,

The other half of me.

I sit with you, until the dawn,

Until you’re whole - and free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a lot longer, but I think it says what it needs to say in this shorter form.


	23. Texture (oneshot, neurodiversity, fluff, friends to lovers)

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, dragging his sheet with him. He had fallen into the post-case crash the previous day, slept for ten hours straight, and now, as was his pattern, he was absolutely ravenous. He opened the fridge and stared into it, not really seeing. 

“Morning… geez, Sherlock,” John switched from chipper to aghast mid-sentence. “Pull that sheet up at the back, will you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked, trying to get his brain back online, then realized that he was a bit breezy in the …behind, as it were. He hoiked the sheet up further, gathering more of the material in his hand. “Better?” 

“It’ll do,” John said, humor in his voice by then. He always seemed amused by the state of Sherlock ‘the morning after’, having dubbed it in the past an ‘epiphany hangover.’ “Though I don’t know why you can’t just put on clothes when you come out here.”

“Itchy,” Sherlock said, absently, giving the fridge up as a bad job and migrating slowly to the cupboards.

“Itchy? What, your clothes?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed an affirmative, still too tired for much more than that. Ah-hah! There was a packet of Ginger Nuts hiding in the back. He pulled them out then dropped himself unceremoniously onto one of the kitchen stools. 

“They can’t all be itchy,” John reasoned, busying himself with the tea. 

Sherlock shrugged, tearing the packet open. “Some more than others,” he said, then stuffed one biscuit into his mouth, whole. Almost immediately, he started coughing. John glanced back at him then sighed, quickly filled a glass with water and handed it over. 

“Thanks,” Sherlock managed, once all the crumbs were clear. He selected another biscuit and nibbled at it carefully. 

“Which ones?” John asked, going back to the kettle which was boiling. 

“Which ones…?”

“Which clothes are itchy?”

“Oh. Polyester. Lace, wool… muslin. Tweed, rayon…”

“Geez. OK, which ones aren’t itchy?” John asked, and part of Sherlock’s brain suddenly clicked back to life - the suspicious part. 

“Why?” he asked, as John came to sit opposite him, nudging a cup of tea across the table and cradling his own. 

“Just wondering,” John said, looking into his tea and blowing on it slightly.

Sherlock frowned, pulling his cup nearer. He mentally worked through a meager list of why John might be asking this question, looking for a reason not to answer… but there didn’t seem to be one…

“Silk,” he said at last, and John looked up, surprised. He must have been quiet too long. “Silk is the best. Cotton, sometimes, but the seams have to be right. No tags. Cashmere. Microfiber is OK,” he said, gesturing at his sheet. 

“Huh,” said John, then sipped his tea and reached for the paper. “Good to know,” he added, absently. 

“Is it?” Sherlock nudged, confused. 

“Uh-huh,” John said, turning to the sports section. After a minute, Sherlock continued nibbling at the biscuits, and nicked the classifieds. 

*******************

“Not going out today, then?” John asked a few days later while tapping away at his computer. They were sitting in their respective chairs - Sherlock in his sheet and reading a Chemistry journal, John sitting sideways, legs thrown across the arm of his chair, in his jeans and jumper. 

Sherlock looked up, confused by the apparent non-sequitur. 

“No? Why?”

“The sheet,” John said, waving his hand. 

Sherlock scowled, folding himself even deeper into the chair. 

“Went to Buckingham Palace in it,” he grumbled, and John laughed. 

“True,” he conceded. “Another itchy day, then?”

“Every day is an itchy day,” Sherlock snapped, turning a page so sharply he almost ripped it. 

“Even in your suits?” John asked. Sherlock closed his journal with an audible huff, though he kept his thumb inside to mark his place. 

“They still have seams,” he said, wondering why he was even engaging in this conversation. 

“Ah,” John said, as if this were a great revelation. 

“Why the sudden interest?” Sherlock asked, suspicions rising again. The only people who had asked these kinds of questions in the past had been schoolyard bullies and university rivals, intent on discovering what made the weirdo… well,  _ weird. _

“Just gathering data,” John said, shooting him a quick smile. “If I know stuff like this, I won’t have a go at you for… well, stuff like parading around in just a sheet.”

“I’m not parading!” Sherlock said, whacking the journal against the arm of his chair for emphasis. 

“Sorry, sorry, lounging then,” John said, but there was so much warmth in his tone that Sherlock felt mollified. “Is this why you wear gloves all the time when we go out?”

Sherlock felt himself flush. He nodded, opened the journal again and looked at it, trying to focus. 

“Belstaff must be itchy, though,” John mused, clicking away at something. 

“S’heavy,” Sherlock said, turning a page and raising the journal slightly to partially obscure his face. 

“And heavy… is good?”

Sherlock nodded again, knowing that the heat was rising in his face. “For going outside,” he ventured, feeling exposed though he was fully cocooned in silk. 

“Ah. Gotcha,” John said, nodding to himself. He then seemed to become absorbed once more in his social media scrolling, and eventually Sherlock was able to concentrate on the next article. 

******************

“Oh, come on. Out of the two of us, you obviously look more like a swimmer,” John groused. Their latest case was going to involve one of them infiltrating a swim-team, and Sherlock was adamant that it wasn’t going to be him. 

“I’m sure you are a marvellous swimmer, John,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. 

“Well, I’m not,” John said, bluntly. “I can do what was required for the army, and that’s it. I don’t have the build for it - but you? You’re all long lines and shoulder-blades.”

Sherlock blinked, brain stuttering to a halt at this pronouncement. 

“What’s the problem?” John went on. “You  _ must  _ know how to swim…”

“Yes… but I don’t like it.” Sherlock admitted. John frowned. 

“Why not?”

Sherlock huffed. Paced. Scratched at the cuffs of his shirt. 

“Itchy,” he said at last, glad it was only he and John there. 

“Itchy… what, the trunks?”

Sherlock nodded, and John looked contemplative. 

“I’m guessing they don’t make silk swim-trunks,” he mused. Sherlock felt… surprised. John had accepted his comment with no argument - which could not be more different than various swimming instructors and family members in the past. He couldn’t count on two hands the amount of times his younger self had caused some scene at a family event due to the upsetting texture of certain fabrics and construction. He had an especially clear memory of a beach holiday in the south of France where he had ended up locking himself in the bathroom rather than be forced to put on the shorts which chafed his skin to the point of madness. 

“What about a swim coach?” John suddenly said. “You could be disguised as a retired swimmer - no trunks required.”

Sherlock couldn’t help smiling at this solution, and John grinned right back. 

*****************

“I got you something,” John said, without preamble. He dropped a plastic bag on Sherlock’s lap, then went and sat in his chair. “Actually - three somethings,” he added, obviously a bit on-edge. 

Sherlock looked from the bag to John and back again.

“Why?” he asked, after a moment. 

“Well… we’ve been living together for over a year now. You pay for loads of things, you let me run around with you on cases… and you won’t tell me when your birthday is, so…” he gestured at the bag. 

“I don’t  _ let you _ come on cases, I invite you,” Sherlock argued, but he did start peering into the bag.

“Well I’m grateful, either way,” John said stoutly, and Sherlock had to remind himself not to gape at him. 

Wanting to avoid the plastic as long as possible, Sherlock tipped the contents onto his thighs and let the bag float down to the floor. He had to grab at one of the items as it started sliding down his leg. Silk? It was thin, white silk, but it had a little stretch to it… he unfolded it fully - it was a long sleeve undershirt. The size looked small, but again he could feel the stretch there so he supposed it  _ might  _ fit… 

He glanced at John, puzzled, but John just gestured at the rest of the pile. The next item was matching white silk, and turned out to be a pair of… leggings? Again, they looked very small… the final item was a pair.... A pair of swim shorts...

“John… I… thank you?” he said, feeling lost in a sea of social niceties. John smiled, all tension seeming to leave him at the words. 

“You’re welcome, but let me explain. See, the white set is silk, but it’s also a compression set. So like… it’ll feel heavy, but not  _ be  _ heavy, you get me? So… so you can wear those under your clothes, and you won’t be itchy, and they’ll sort of… squish you,” John said, getting pinker and pinker as he went on. 

“Squish me,” Sherlock repeated, looking at the items dubiously. 

“Well… yeah,” John said, scratching the back of his head. “Anyway just try them out later, yeah? So, the other ones, they’re swim trunks, but look at the inside.”

Obediently, Sherlock did so. There was a hidden second layer of fabric, very light to the touch. It was seamless, and also stretchy like the silk. 

“They’re specially made for people who… who don’t like to feel itchy,” John said, and by that point he was so red he was glowing. “I thought you might enjoy swimming more, if....”

“If I wasn’t itchy,” Sherlock said, voice breathy. John had… John had…

He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around what John had done, but he still had to blink rapidly and swallow a couple of times, regardless.

“Thank you,” he said, and it came out embarrassed and gruff. John still seemed to understand. 

**************

Getting into the silk leggings had been quite the challenge, but he had managed it. He was wearing his microfiber boxer-briefs underneath, and the material of the leggings was so thin he could see them through the layer. In fact they were so thin he could even see his freckles through them. Getting into the long-sleeve undershirt was posing even more of a challenge, and he ended up with a roll of tight fabric wrapped around his upper chest and under his armpits. He didn’t want to rip it, but couldn’t figure out how to get it on properly. 

He had said he would try them out, even though he didn’t actually think they would do any good. But he had told John he would, and John had been so pleased… he wouldn’t be pleased if Sherlock shrugged the thing off and didn’t even give it a proper go…

“John?” he called, hesitantly, cracking his door open. 

“Yeah?” John called back from the kitchen. 

“Can you… can you help me, for a moment?” Sherlock asked, heart fluttering. 

“Sure…” John said, coming into view. “Ah, I see,” he said, not batting an eye but reaching for the roll of silk. “Turn around?” he said, and Sherlock did so, oddly relieved not to have to see his face at that moment. John got the main bulk of the roll down over Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and then Sherlock was able to unroll it down and over his hips. It was definitely tight, and he did indeed feel… squished. 

“There we go!” John crowed in victory, and then patted him on the back. “I’ll leave you to it.” Sherlock heard the door closed, and let out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. 

***************

Sherlock had decided on a proper test - he had put on one of his least favourite outfits - a tracksuit he wore for some of his disguises. It was polyester, covered in seams, with plastic zippers all over it. He slipped it on over the silk and felt… well he could certainly feel that there was something else over the silk, but not what it was. He couldn’t actually  _ feel  _ it… it didn’t feel…

“John!” he exclaimed, bolting out of his room. John looked up from the couch, and guffawed at the neon monstrosity. 

“Haven’t seen that one before,” he said, standing up. “Well?”

“It’s not itchy!” Sherlock said, not sure if John really understood the magnitude of this. It seemed he did though, because he made a little whooping sound.

“Yeah! Silk squish for the win!” he said, punching the air and laughing. “Soon we’ll have you running around on a beach too - though we’ll need about a megatonne of sunscreen.”

Startled, Sherlock could suddenly picture it; he and John on a warm beach, running in and out of the waves. Happy, relaxed. Laughing, and… and…

When he came back to himself, John was smiling more softly, and his eyes were as warm as the beach had been. 

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Sherlock admitted, and John stepped a little closer. 

“You already said thank you,” he reminded him, and then John reached for his hand. Sherlock gave it to him, bemused, but with a thrill of nervous excitement. John held his hand for a moment, then turned it and pulled up the tracksuit sleeve to reveal the white silk stretched taught underneath. He brought up his other hand, and trailed his fingertips from Sherlock’s palm, over the sliver of exposed wrist, and onto the silk, staring. Sherlock shivered, and John glanced up at him. 

“I can’t tell the difference,” John said, voice quiet. “Your skin already feels like silk.”

“I assure you, it’s not,” Sherlock said, seeing only acceptance and anticipation in John’s eyes. Amazed at his own daring, he stepped closer still. The warmth in John’s eyes flared then, and Sherlock knew they were on the edge of something...

“Well… I could take your word for it…” John said, tilting his head. His other hand came up to rest on Sherlock’s waist, and he chuckled at the rustle of cheap fabric. “But I think it would be better to follow the scientific method.”

“You… you want to test a hypothesis?” Sherlock breathed, mesmerized by happy blue eyes, by the light touches, by the way his skin had started singing. 

“Mmm,” John hummed in agreement. “Which parts of Sherlock Holmes have the same texture of silk?… I think I’ll start right…” and he leaned forward and up, the barest brush of lips against Sherlock’s lips. “...here,” he whispered. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he wrapped his arms fully around John, pressing their lips together again. John hummed again, this time in satisfaction, and his hands slipped up and under the tracksuit to rest on the silk beneath.

This was an experiment Sherlock could definitely get on board with. 

He was, after all, a scientist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see Sherlock's new silk set [HERE](http://www.skinniesuk.com/Silk-Facts) and his new swim trunks [HERE](https://www.nonetz.com/collections/mens-swimwear)
> 
> Sherlock also has sensory issues with various fabrics in my fic, 'To Be Human'. You can read that one [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195783/chapters/52991959) and the sequel to that one is coming soon!
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	24. Verbal (221B, cute)

“The fact that it was a  _ Deilephila elpenor _ or Elephant Hawk Moth in her mouth is interesting - they were the first species in which nocturnal color vision was documented in animals, suggesting it was attracted to her lipstick…”

John held back a smile as Sherlock lifted the crime scene-tape so John could get under it.

“...but they have an efficient hovering capability suggesting the moth was placed there rather than arriving on its own…”

Sherlock held the door open while chattering away, allowing John through first.

“... of course if the victim had beer on her breath then it would have been attracted to the smell as well - we’ll have to wait for the autopsy, I’ll let Molly know…”

The door to the cab was also held open.

“... then again they are also attracted to the smell of bananas so it could have been that. However they are mostly nocturnal - it could be a lesser species but looking at it…”

Sherlock pulled out his phone and showed John the pictures he had taken, leaning into his space until their foreheads were almost touching.

“...see the characteristic violet tones on the wings? Fascinating.”

“Yes,” John agreed, and Sherlock continued talking. John knew he wasn’t really expected to listen, but he didn’t need to. Sherlock said everything he needed to say with his body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/)
> 
> You can bid on me in Fandom Trumps Hate 2021! All money goes to charity. I am offering three items: 1) Sherlock podfic, 2) any fandom podfic, 3) Sherlock fanfic! Bidding closes Friday Feb 26th 8pm EST. Go see my page [HERE](https://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/143675.html)


	25. Forget (poem, humor, fluff)

[ ](https://ibb.co/Wxk617N)

(For those with screenreaders, the image is a carton of milk with the following poem over the top of it:)

John is coming home soon, 

But he doesn’t know;

I dissected the couch cushion and bisected the throw. 

He will make that flat face,

He might even sigh, 

He’ll ask me what my problem is and ask the ceiling, “Why?!”

He’ll go into the kitchen, 

His face will stall and freeze, 

He’ll see the toes inside the fridge next to the block of cheese.

“Where has all the milk gone?”

(He asks this every time.)

“Experiment,” I’ll say again, “To try and solve a crime.”

John will not believe me.

(It’s a lie, it’s true.)

I only say it now so I can see what he will do…

He’ll think over his options;

To shout or rant or rave,

He’ll wonder if there’s any way to get me to behave.

He’ll say I drive him crazy, 

But then that face will change, 

A buried smile will twist his scowl and make it look quite strange.

Then will come the snorting,

A clear out-loud guffaw, 

And when he sees the freeze-dried worms in the utensil drawer, 

His laugh will fill the kitchen, 

Will tingle down my spine, 

This giggle-fit, hysteria - I claim it: him? He’s mine. 

And on some future day, when

My dear John can’t laugh; 

I’ll duct-tape all his socks and put some onions in the bath.

Because he’s mine - I claimed him;

I will not rise above.

I won’t forget: he needs to laugh, just like he needs to love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like my little ficlets, come follow my on Tumblr because I'll continue posting once the challenge is over :-D  
> [Link here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/ohlooktheresabee)
> 
> If you want me to write something for you, the bidding is open on Fandom Trumps Hate - all money goes directly to charity!  
> [Link here.](https://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/143675.html)


	26. Mystic (onshot, humor, idiots in love)

“I still can’t believe that Anderson thought the fortune-teller was real,” Sherlock muttered. His voice was muffled further as his face was mushed into the front of John’s T-shirt. “I mean, I know he’s slow,” he continued, mouth moving against John’s chest sleepily, “But I’m starting to wonder if he’s in some kind of undiscovered vegetative state.”

John couldn’t help it, he laughed, caught off guard once again by Sherlock’s unforgiving and cutting sense of humor. 

“Will you hush?” He said once he had calmed down. Sherlock’s arms had tightened around his middle as he laughed, and he could  _ feel  _ him grinning. “We’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Stop talking to me then.”

“Right.”

“Fine.”

A minute or two went by. 

“... but how did the fortune-teller know about the sister?” John asked, idly twirling a curl around the tip of his finger. 

“I thought I was supposed to hush?”

“You can hush once you’ve told me.”

With a great theatrical sigh, Sherlock dragged himself off of John and propped himself on one elbow, facing him. 

“It was nothing more than a cold-read. Much as I can make deductions about someone’s job, family, housing - so can these people. The difference is they use it to become charlatans.”

“While you use it to help people,” John said with a grin, booping Sherlock on the nose with the tip of his finger - which never failed to make him scrunch it up like an irritated rabbit, as he was doing now. 

“I use it to solve crimes,” Sherlock said, scratching his nose and glaring. 

“And help people.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Oh, please,” John said, jabbing a finger now into Sherlock’s ribs, causing him to squeak and twist a bit to the side. “You care about people. And you’re a bit on the mystic side yourself, sometimes.”

Sherlock shot John his patented, ‘you have shocked me and affronted my honour’ look. It bounced off John as it always did. The effect was somewhat lessened anyway by the way his hair was exploding off of his head.

“You take that back!”

“Er… no.”

“My mind is a well-oiled machine,” Sherlock argued, eyes narrowing. He flopped onto his back, the image of indignation. “Which means, I can see connections between things faster than most other people. It is based on the scientific method, and cold, hard logic. I am not…  _ mystical.” _

“Let’s see, shall we?” John said, reaching out a hand blindly to scrabble for his phone on the bedside table. 

“John, I thought you wanted to  _ sleep.” _

“OK - I’ll prove you’re a mystic, then I’ll sleep.”

“I am not a mystic!” Sherlock cried, flipping over, shoving his face into John’s ribs and causing a tickling sensation which made him snort with laughter again. “It’s not funny,” he groused. “You’re just wrong.”

John threaded his free hand into Sherlock’s hair while tapping onto his phone screen with the other.

“Right, here we go. Mystic. Noun…”

_ “Wow!”  _

_ “Hush. _ A person who seeks by contemplation and self-surrender… well that’s you, already.”

“I hardly think the ability to think quietly for more than five minutes at a time needs to be referred to as ‘contemplation’,” Sherlock said, wriggling closer and wrapping his feet around John’s ankles. 

“Mind palace.”

“... ugh, OK, fine.”

“Self-surrender, too. You don’t eat on cases, and you don't take care of yourself enough.”

“Hmmm.”

“...seeks by contemplation and self-surrender to obtain unity with or absorption into the Deity…”

“Hah!”

“I’m not done! The Deity or the absolute. And don’t even start - you’ve told me loads of times about the world being a tapestry and everything is a little thread being part of the whole and blah blah blah.”

“Oh, blah blah blah, is it? See, this is what becoming a couple means. First it’s all,  _ ‘amazing’ _ and  _ ‘extraordinary’, _ then we get together and it’s _ ‘blah blah blah’.” _

Sherlock huffed out of his nose and into John’s shirt, and John scritched his scalp a little. 

“Yup, you’re right, now that we’re a couple, I’ve become totally immune to your charms.”

A pause.

“...Really?”

“No, you berk. Now listen: absorption into the Deity or the absolute, or who believe in the spiritual apprehension of truths that are beyond the intellect.”

“Go on then,” Sherlock said with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure you have already marshalled your arguments.”

“Well, it is  _ you  _ that likes that story about Samarra, right?”

_ “Like _ is the wrong word.”

“And you believe in fate.”

“I think some outcomes have a higher likelihood of happening than others.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs,” John mused, clicking the screen off and putting the phone back. “You say that sometimes, too.”

“I say a lot of things.”

John slung his arm over Sherlock’s waist, the other still in his hair. He pulled him a little closer. 

“Is there some reason why you can’t be a bit mystical, sometimes? Why you always need to try and be a machine?”

The pause went on so long that John wondered if Sherlock had fallen asleep. 

“I get a lot of data,” Sherlock said, something different in his voice. John stayed quiet, knowing the mood had changed. “Sometimes… too much. I end up knowing something, but I don’t know  _ how  _ I know it.”

“Is that so terrible?”

“When you’re trying to convict someone for murder, it is rather inconvenient, yes.”

“Hmmm.”

“So… so I need to look,  _ really look, _ to catch up.” Sherlock said, and John felt his long fingers curling into his shirt. “So I can explain… how I know, what I know.”

“You need to observe.”

“Exactly.”

There was another pause. 

“It used to… be a bit frightening. When I was little, I mean.”

“What did, love?”

“The not-knowing. Like, I would be introduced to someone, and their secret would just be hanging in front of their face in capital letters, for everyone to see… but they didn’t see it. Only I did. And I didn’t know why.”

John moved his hand from Sherlock’s hair to his back, giving some soothing strokes. 

“The apprehension of truths beyond the intellect,” Sherlock said then, tone thoughtful. “I wonder… if I had heard that as a child…”

“Yes?”

“I might have ended up telling people’s fortunes, too.”

“Probably for the best, then,” John said, heart full as he rested a cheek against the mop of curly hair he could only feel in the dark. “Or else I wouldn’t have met my consulting detective.”

“You still would have.”

“How do you know?”

“The meeting in Samarra, John. There are always two of us.”

Startled by the strength of his own emotion upon hearing these words, John pressed a kiss to the curls. “Sounds pretty damn mystical to me,” he said, gruffly. 

“Hmmm. Perhaps,” Sherlock whispered, and John could hear the sleep creeping in. 

“There are always two of us,” John whispered back, feeling Sherlock nuzzle more securely into his side, before he too, drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/)  
> 
> 
> You can bid on me in Fandom Trumps Hate 2021! All money goes to charity. I am offering three items: 1) Sherlock podfic, 2) any fandom podfic, 3) Sherlock fanfic! Bidding closes Friday Feb 26th 8pm EST. Go see my page [HERE](https://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/143675.html)


	27. Ears (drabble, mature)

It doesn’t always work. The side of the thumb - no. The inside of of an ankle - still no. Even the thin skin on the temple, pulse thrumming beneath - no. Sherlock has investigated - extensively. 

But when Sherlock drags his lips, just enough to cause the lightest drag of skin-on-skin, against the back of John’s knee… or over the top of his foot, across the span of his collar-bone… his ears turn so red that Sherlock can detect the change in temperature when his lips finally move over the whorl and shell. 

“Why?” John gasps.

“Because I hear you, too,” Sherlock purrs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was a bit of DRAMA yesterday - some nasty human has (for reasons unknown) reported my posts and my Tumblr url to FB as going 'against community standards', and I'm banned from ALL groups until Monday morning. No one can post a link to my Tumblr on FB now, which means this is not the work of an algorithm - someone literally had to type it out and report it. This also means all of my past posts are gone - fics, lovely reader comments, fic and podfic links/recs for other people, artwork, link to the FTH auction, hours and hours of work and labor - all gone. It was the kind of targeted and vicious attack that makes you wonder why you are even bothering. 
> 
> BUT, after a rocky day with ngl, some tears, I am not going to let the b*stards get me down. I write fics, make podfics, dumb memes on Tumblr and commission artwork for the joy of it, and I'm not going to let a bully take that away. 
> 
> Will my posts etc. be restored when/if the ban is lifted? Who knows, but even if they are I will be very wary of putting in such effort on that platform again. I am considering getting a Twitter account instead, but you can always find me here on Ao3 and on Tumblr (same pseudonym). 
> 
> Why did they do it? Jealousy? Maybe they were pissed off that I post a lot? Maybe they don't like the charities that the FTH auction is in aid of (including help for immigrants, trans people, people of colour, women...)?... maybe they were just bored. I will never know. All I do know, is that they are trying to make me shut up.
> 
> F*** them, and f*** that. 
> 
> The auction closes tomorrow, 8pm EST. Much love <3
> 
> [Auction link](https://fth2021offerings.dreamwidth.org/143675.html)


	28. Fashion (oneshot, AU, alternate first meeting)

“I’m looking for something more natural, you know?” John said for what felt like the hundredth time. The model in front of his camera was really quite something to behold, but seemed like he had never posed for a professional shoot before. “Relax your neck,” he said, gesturing. 

The beautiful specimen of a man arched his neck theatrically, and John sighed. 

“We’re not going for a pose, here luv,” he said, taking a couple of steps to the left. Cool blue eyes followed him from under artfully tousled curls. “That’s not what this shoot is about. We’re going for something  _ raw.” _

The model looked faintly puzzled, turning to follow John’s pacing. John sighed. They had taken him on at the last minute as the man they had booked called in sick. The agency had fumbled on sending over a portfolio, but assured John that the man they were sending was a professional. Sadly, it seemed that he was yet another pretty face with little in the way of heart and soul behind it. 

Dressed in a red silk dress, he certainly looked the part. The shoot was in aid of an LGBTQ+ charity organisation - they had wanted an image that said something about gender-fluidity, and strength, and passion. It needed an emotional edge to it. The silk was fire-engine red and smooth in the bodice, appearing to drip down from one shoulder, becoming rougher and deeper in colour towards the floor until it exploded in blood-red taffeta. The colour and corseting did wonders for the model’s skin-tone and physique, but quite frankly he looked…  _ bored. _ Almost like he was waiting for something…

“Don’t turn to look at me!” John said after moving again, beginning to get irritated, camera against his chest. “Work with the dress, give me some movement.” 

The model frowned. “So, don’t turn, but move?” he asked, and John stilled. He had not expected that voice - he had assumed it would be higher, frailer… that voice was just like the dress the man was wearing; smooth and raw and fire and blood… There was also a healthy dose of petulance in there as well. 

“You  _ are  _ a model, right?” John snapped. The man glared at him, and John clicked the shutter. The glare was replaced by surprise, then his face wiped eerily blank. 

“Now, that was something,” John mused. “Maybe there is more than air between your ears after all.”

Scowl. 

Click. 

“Perfect. Let’s see what other emotion we can get onto that face, hmm? Phil can you adjust the light mate? We need something lower. Do we have gels?” John called out to the lighting technician. Phil nodded then disappeared into the back. John put his camera on top of his bag by the wall, then approached the model, reaching for the layers of fabric. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m adjusting the dress,” John said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, I know you might not have done a shoot in a dress before, but…”

“You think I have hang-ups about falsely-gendered clothes?” the man snapped, gabbing fistfuls of the skirt. 

“OK that’s better,” John said approvingly. The model blinked, apparently taken aback at the praise. “And yeah, I did think that… so if it’s not that, then what’s the problem?”

“I…” the model hesitated, eyes flickering around the room. Once he seemed to realize that John would keep waiting, he sagged slightly. “I am not used to displaying… emotion.”

“Ah - runway model?” John guessed, and after a moment the man nodded, slowly. “Well, this shoot is for a charity, so we are doing the best we can. I don’t usually shoot editorial, so we are both out of our comfort zones.”

Phil wandered back into the room. “What are you thinking? Umber?”

“Yeah, let’s try that,” John said with an encouraging smile at the model, but the man was no longer looking at him. He was looking over his shoulder, where Phil was sliding the coloured filter across the bulb of the light. 

“You’re left-handed?” he called, eyes narrowed and something tense settling into his posture. Phil laughed. 

“Yeah? Why?” he answered without turning around. 

“Because you opened the door with gloves, but you closed it without,” the model said cryptically - and then a lot of things happened very quickly. 

Phil looked over his shoulder, confused, just as the model launched himself past John in a whirl of silken aggression. John was thrown to the side, only just preventing his camera from smashing on the floor. He turned to curse the model out for being so careless, but his voice got lodged in this throat at the sight before him…

They were fighting, really fighting. Phil was throwing wild punches, looking so deranged that he became unrecognizable. The model was darting this way and that and landing jabs of his own, looking like… like…

John knew that technically he should probably jump in and help - but at that moment he didn’t even know  _ who  _ he would help. Instead, he stayed right where he was, crouched against the wall, letting the camera do all the work as he clicked the shutter repeatedly.

The man looked like fire in motion, like flames set free. His face was fluctuating as he allowed his body to move, lost in concentration, veering wildly from haughty and amused to snarling and enraged as Phil twisted and elbowed and attempted to evade his grip. The dress flared up as he spun, wreathing them both in flickering shimmering flames, and for a moment there John felt like he was looking at a creature from another world. 

But then, the model’s leg got caught within the folds of the dress and he fell heavily backwards, and to John’s horror Phil took the opportunity not to back away, but to slam him even harder into the ground and wrap his hands around his neck. 

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Phil crooned as the struggling man clawed at his much larger hands and gasped for air, choking…

CRACK!

The sound a camera makes when it is swung from it’s strap, directly into someone’s skull, is difficult to describe. Phil fell forward, unconscious, hands going limp and the model took in a huge breath as he pried them loose. John set the camera on the floor, wincing at the tinkle of glass that let him know it was probably done for, and rolled Phil off of the striking creature who was already shoving at the knocked-out lighting tech and starting to sit up. 

“You’re not a model,” John blurted, and the man raised his eyebrows. His eyeliner was smudged, the dress was torn, he was panting from exertion and adrenaline, and his hair made him look like he had been electrocuted. 

John had never seen anything quite so gorgeous. 

“And you’re not left-handed,” the vision said, sounding almost accusatory. 

“I… yes I am?”

“No you’re not!” The man huffed, finally getting free and struggling to his knees. The dress was a chaotic mess of frills and folds around him. “You swung your camera right-handed!”

“Well… look, does it matter?” John said, blinking, suddenly wondering if any of this was really happening. 

“Of course it matters! The killer is left-handed!”

“Right, OK… What?”

Sometime later, when there were police photographers wandering curiously around the set and after a disgruntled officer had taken a statement and informed him that the remains of his camera had been taken as evidence, John heard someone clear their throat behind him. 

He turned, then grinned at the sight. The model - no,  _ detective _ \- was standing behind him, clad in a sinfully well-fitted suit topped with a slightly sheepish expression. 

“Looks good on you,” John said, eyeing not just the cut of the suit, and making no attempt to hide the fact. “Not as good as the dress did…”

To his delight, the man’s pale cheeks were touched with a hint of rose at that. 

“So you thought I was a murderer?” John asked, folding his arms and letting his gaze continue to wander. Whoever had tailored that suit deserved a medal... 

“There was a distinct possibility. You have connections to two of the victims, you say you’re left handed…”

“I  _ am  _ left-handed…”

“No notable alibis during the time of the murders…”

“I’m not seeing anyone. And  _ everyone  _ in the fashion world is connected…”

“But it turns out… I was…”

“...Yes?”

The detective mumbled something. 

“Sorry,” said John, amused and not sorry at all, “I didn’t catch that?”

“I was  _ wrong,” _ the man said, eyes fixed somewhere around John’s left ear. 

“Ah, well. There’s another emotion for you to practice displaying. Contrition.” 

This caused some kind of rapid-blinking effect, and John laughed, absolutely enamoured. 

“Dinner?” he asked, taking a chance. 

“Dinner?” the man repeated, still blinking. 

“Yes, like a date? You know, where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

“I… I don’t date.” 

“Right.”

“I consider myself married to my work.”

“OK,” agreed John, unable to stop smiling as he watched the charmingly confused man in front of him puzzle his way through John’s lack of reaction. He let him struggle with it a little longer, then stepped forward, grasping the thin arms firmly. 

“So… dinner?” he repeated, staring into those unusual eyes and finally sensing the moment when the man behind them was as caught as he was.

Blink. 

Blush.

“Starving,” he said, staring right back with something starting to shine there, like startled wonder. 

“There’s a really good Chinese place down the road,” John told him, feeling giddy as he stepped to the side then looped their elbows together to lead the way. 

“Really? You know you can tell a good Chinese restaurant by the bottom third of the door handle…”

John walked them out of the studio door, in between the police cars, and onwards into all the possibilities of the raucous London night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this one!


	29. List (Poem, cute)

[](https://ibb.co/Z2MfRBg)

For those with screenreaders: the image is a clipboard with the following written on it:

Protect the kitchen table, do not scratch or burn the wood;  
(This falls into the list of things that John says are not good).  
Don’t break the bathroom sink, the shower curtain, or the loo;  
These things will make John sigh again, because they’re not-good too. 

Categories, nuances, things you shouldn’t say;  
At first Sherlock regarded them with something like dismay.  
But then people responded to his new attempts at tact,  
And Sherlock realized this might be something that he lacked.

So John can lead the way in this; his captain and his guide,  
To steer him through the fog - a glowing beacon at his side,  
He’ll learn this for him: interact, the price is worth the cost,  
Because without his blogger, Sherlock Holmes would lose - be lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome! I'm going to give you one more bonus entry tomorrow - because 29 just seems unfinished ;-)


	30. Obvious (explicit, oneshot, h/c, friends to lovers, feels)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought I should add one more explicit piece to really earn that rating haha! Here’s a lil’ porny trope-bomb to see us into March. Thank you for reading along with these prompts, it has been a lot of fun and great practice for me. My links etc. are in the notes at the end, along with a list of upcoming fics...

“That was one of the most idiotic, ridiculous things you have ever done!” John snarled, slamming the door of the flat closed behind them and flicking on the lights. 

“He would have escaped,” Sherlock countered feebly, teeth chattering. He was already crouched down by the fireplace, dragging the logs into place with numb fingers. 

“So? The police would have got him eventually, but nooo, Sherlock Holmes has to do everything himself!”

“There was no guarantee they would have caught him,” Sherlock mumbled, striking a long match and setting the fire going, not looking up. 

“There was no guarantee you would come out of that canal alive, either!” snapped John. His feet had appeared in Sherlock’s line of vision, and suddenly he was hoisted to a standing position by two strong hands under his armpits. 

“I…”

“No! I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock, I really don’t,” John said, pulling the heavy wet Belstaff off Sherlock’s shoulders in erratic, angry movements. “I don’t want to hear any reasoning, any logic, any excuses right now, you get me?” The sodden coat was flung behind him, and John then was undoing the buttons on his suit jacket and tugging at the sleeves of that as well. They did not come free easily, stuck as they were to the equally drenched shirt underneath. John actually growled a little under his breath as he finally worked the offending piece of clothing loose. 

“John,” said Sherlock, beginning to feel light-headed. John seemed off; angry and intense, avoiding all eye contact. The jacket joined the coat, then John was reaching for the wet wool of the scarf with both hands. “John… stop,” he said, reaching trembling fingers for John’s arms. John shrugged him off, then pulled the scarf free, the ends of it clinging to Sherlock’s neck as it was pulled against the skin. Scarf disposed of, John brought his grasping hands up again to the first closed button of Sherlock’s shirt, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists this time, stronger now.

“John.”

John stopped, his muscles tense beneath Sherlock’s fingers. John was staring at Sherlock’s throat, hands still locked around the button on his shirt, expression mutinous. 

_ “John,” _ Sherlock repeated, swaying slightly. John gulped; Sherlock saw his Adam's apple bob once, twice…

“You were there… and then you were gone. Just like that. Just  _ gone  _ \- I couldn’t see you at all,” John said, voice thin. “I reached for you, but…”

“John,” Sherlock said again, apparently unable to say anything else. John seemed to understand though, as his eyes finally met Sherlock’s. Sherlock rubbed his thumbs across the inside of John’s wrists - feeling the blood rushing there; so warm against his cold hands.

“You can’t keep doing things like this,” John whispered. His stance was softening by then, but his eyes remained just as pained and intense, his arms and hands still and rigid. Sherlock willed his frozen brain to wake up as he looked for the minute clues that would help him understand what was happening. The lines of tension around John’s eyes, the anger in his posture warring with something else… the light flush to the skin, the quick thrum of the pulse under his fingers… the pupils, locked onto his, widening infinitesimally…

Comprehension began to dawn on him, which must have shown somehow on his face as John abruptly released his shirt and turned away, swallowing again, face even redder. 

“John,” Sherlock said, feeling desperate and slow, but John stepped towards the door. 

“You… you need to get warm, Sherlock. You’ll get sick if you stay like that,” John said mechanically. Sherlock saw this fist clench and release at his side. Sherlock darted forward, stumbling, limbs heavy, but he righted himself as he grabbed for that clenching hand. He wished he could get his vocabulary back, wished he could somehow intertwine their minds together so that he didn’t have to - but he mainly wished, with all his might, that John would not walk out that door. 

“Sherlock…” John tugged lightly at his caught wrist, looking anywhere but at him, using his other hand to scrub over his face. Sherlock reached out quickly and caught that one, too. John finally did look at him again then, with that strained smile he only used when he was really emotionally compromised, obviously about to lash out or turn and run… but then he stopped, because Sherlock pulled sharply on both of his hands and placed them back where they had been, on that closed shirt button. 

Sherlock breathed in through his nose, trying to get his heart under control as he threaded his fingers in with John’s, guiding them to undo the button, a combination of their fingertips getting it done. John’s startled eyes flicked down as a pale and wet sliver of chest was revealed. He too breathed in sharply, and Sherlock pulled his hands further down, resting John’s fingers over the next button. The tip of John’s tongue appeared between his lips, and Sherlock felt warmth begin to return to his core at the sight. He trailed his fingertips over the top of John’s, and John’s fingers moved on their own then, sliding the fragile button through the fabric opening, loose wet shirt left clinging to Sherlock’s skin. 

“Sherlock…” John whispered, face somehow haggard yet wanting, as Sherlock moved their joined hands further down to the next button. Sherlock let his own hands float back to John’s wrists, allowing him the time and space to decide for himself. John looked back up at him, and Sherlock let him see exactly how he was feeling right in that moment - afraid, happy, anxious, aroused - it was all there to see, but he made sure that the foremost thing on his mind, was  _ hope. _

John stared at him, appearing mesmerized, the crackle of logs picking up the flames the only sound in the room. Then he exhaled, still staring, and Sherlock felt the next button release as John undid it, felt his hands slide down to rub softly between the final shirt button and the top button of Sherlock’s trousers. 

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to lick his lips - he only knew he was doing it as it happened, but John’s eyes immediately tracked the movement. The shirt button was flicked open, as was the trouser button, and John suddenly crowded closer, hands on Sherlock’s zipper, eyes on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock said the only thing that it was possible for him to say. 

_ “John.” _

The sound John gave as he lunged forward was full of hurt and threaded through with lust, and Sherlock swallowed it down the best he could with his lips. John pulled Sherlock’s zipper down and his warm hand cupped him through his boxers, right as his burning hot tongue stroked its way urgently into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck, hanging on as John’s clutched at him roughly, one arm splayed between his shoulder-blades, the other beginning to knead at the clinging silk of his underwear. They continued to kiss, lips sloppy and tongues uncoordinated, breath given and taken between them, until Sherlock wavered on his feet again. Suddenly John had both arms around him, the back of his knees hit the couch, and he was being lowered down. He clung to the back of John’s jacket, unwilling to release him for a moment, unwilling to lay down without him. 

They sat there together, John’s hands pushing impatiently at the folds of his shirt, but again it was time for fabric to fight back as it got stuck, awkward and unmanageable on Sherlock’s forearms. John cursed under his breath and suddenly looked so much more himself, and Sherlock felt a surprise bubble of something warm and bright fighting its way up from the dark and cold waters he had been lost in. 

He laughed. It was just a small guffaw at first, but as soon as John stopped glaring at his shirt sleeves long enough to shoot him an incredulous look, it devolved into full-on giggles. The side of John’s mouth twitched of its own volition, and finally,  _ finally, _ that intense and agonised glint to his eyes began to recede. He didn’t join in the laugh, but the curve of his lip spread until he was watching Sherlock try and get himself under control with a hopeless, fond smile. Sherlock smiled back, chest still twitching with repressed laughter, and John sighed as if to say,  _ ‘What am I going to do with you?’ _

Then, ever so gently, he pulled one of Sherlock’s hands towards him, pulled the damp cloth out of the way, and undid the button he found there. Sherlock’s laughter stilled as John brought the revealed wrist up to his mouth, kissed it soundly. They stared at each other for a beat, until Sherlock had the presence of mind to present his other wrist. Again, it was unveiled with all the reverence of a master unveiling his latest creation, and as John pressed his lips to the thin skin there, Sherlock’s heart burned anew at the sight. 

The sleeves released easily, and then the shirt was gone. Water still dripped from Sherlock’s hair, the curls hanging onto it as only curls could. He felt it drip down his bare back, and shivered. John put his arms around him, pulled him close, until his head rested on his shoulder and John’s hands were stroking up and down his back. Sherlock sighed, wondering if he was dreaming - wondering if he was still trapped, dying, under the water... 

Sherlock felt John turn his head, his hot breath flowing over the skin of Sherlock’s neck. John held himself there for a few moments, tension creeping back into his posture, though the gentle stroking of his hands never wavered. The strokes were moving lower each time, until his fingers brushed and then dipped under the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, hearing the need in his own voice and marvelling at it. 

“Shhh,” John soothed, and then he was pressing his lips against Sherlock’s neck, kissing, suckling there, until Sherlock’s breathing became louder in the quiet room. John pulled at the trousers, other arm tight around Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock raised himself up just enough so that John could slide them and his boxers off his hips and down. John released him just long enough to pull shoes and clothes off and away, before his arms were back around him and he was lowering them both down onto the sofa. 

John was a heavy warm weight on top of Sherlock, and the rough feel of his clothes somehow soothed Sherlock’s nerves at being completely naked underneath him, his cock filling with heat and need against John’s jeans, making laying still a trial. The cold of the London canal-water was almost gone now, chased away by the fire in the hearth, and the fire under John’s skin. John dipped his head, turned it, pressing his ear against Sherlock’s sternum and rested there for a moment, Sherlock’s arms around his back, fingers toying with his jacket. Sherlock supposed John was listening to the beat of Sherlock’s heart, and he fancied that if he concentrated enough, he might be able to let it beat out a message of devotion that only John could hear. 

It might have worked, because John pulled back, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of Sherlock’s head, thumbs resting over his temples. His hands were firm, unmoving - but Sherlock had never felt so safe in his life. 

“Are you alright?” John asked, quiet. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, though ‘alright’ was definitely inadequate. John hummed, smiling softly, but with eyes tracing all over Sherlock’s face as if hunting for an injury. 

“You’re sure?” 

Sherlock turned his head as much as he was able, pressing a kiss to John’s wrist. John hummed again, more of his weight relaxing down. “I’m alright, John,” Sherlock said against his skin, against his pulse. 

“But you might not have been,” John said, and Sherlock knew he couldn’t argue anymore. 

“I’m sorry.” He kissed the skin again, closing his eyes, focusing on the feel of the tendons there beneath his lips. Then, “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” said John, smoothing his thumbs then over Sherlock’s cheekbones, down the sides of his jaw. “But you know, now?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered, unable to reach John’s skin, so he whispered it up towards his forehead, to the ceiling, to the endless night sky. “Yes. I know, now.”

“Good,” said John, and then he was kissing Sherlock again - kissing him, and holding his head, fingers tunneled into his damp hair, and with the weight of him and the warmth of him and the tongue stroking just-so against his own, Sherlock wondered how his transport had ever survived with only mere clothing to surround it with, before. 

Languorous at first, the kisses soon grew faster and more urgent. Sherlock’s legs were trapped, the thick fabric of John’s jeans no doubt leaving red imprints and echoes on his skin. He moved, freeing one leg so he could bend it at the knee, rest his foot against the back of John’s calf. John groaned into his mouth then, and Sherlock shifted the foot to the couch seat, used his newfound leverage to curve his hips upwards…

_ “Sherlock!” _ John said, an amazed gasp, as if this action had not ever occurred to anyone else before this moment, as if Sherlock had discovered it, just for them. Sherlock grinned, feeling alive, and wicked with it. He did not drown in the cold water. He was here instead - being consumed by fire. He undulated his spine again, the skin of his back already making lewd sounds against the couch-leather, and John’s second gasp sounded as shocked and elated as his first. John paused, then got an experimental look on his face, as he ground his pelvis down - and as Sherlock’s erection rubbed against the bulge of John’s, it sent flickering tendrils of pleasure cascading right down to the very tips of his toes. John adjusted his weight, and Sherlock got his other leg free as well, allowing John to rest on the couch fully in between his bent legs. Sherlock might have felt embarrassed by this, in another life, so be in such a position - vulnerable and exposed to another person so utterly. But that was before he  _ knew.  _

That was before it became  _ obvious. _

John groaned, deep and raw, and began to grind his hips with more urgency. He leaned down, lips brushing, pants of hot breath being traded back and forth between the press of soft skin. Sherlock ran his hands down John’s back and grabbed his buttocks in both hands, urging him to move more, more,  _ more… _

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough.

“I want to feel your skin,” Sherlock gasped against John’s lips, and John surged down to kiss him roughly at the comment. He surfaced, eyes glazed, staring at Sherlock like he didn’t understand the language he was speaking. Sherlock kissed him again, rolling his hips upwards, and when they parted, gasping, he said, “I want to feel your cock on mine.”

John’s hips gave a sharp jolt, apparently of their own volition, and John’s eyes appeared at once completely dark. Sherlock reached between them, past the hard throb of his own cock, to get at John’s zipper.

“Can I?” Sherlock asked, hearing the whine in his voice but uncaring, unveiled. “Please, John. Can I?”

_ “God, _ yes,” John said, a husk to his voice as he tried in vain to catch his breath. Sherlock made short work of his jeans, sliding his hand inside and under the fabric of the boxers too, John’s cock suddenly tangible and  _ real  _ underneath his palm. He groaned at the feel of it - hard, hot silk, already damp with sweat and precome. With a sound more animal than human, he pulled it free of the fabric, immediately removing his hand and raising his hips…

John’s gasp then was more of a strangled sound, and he pushed his face into the space between Sherlock’s neck and the back of the couch. Sherlock could feel the air heating there as John’s thrusts grew more fierce, the slick slide of their cocks together driving Sherlock wild with sensation. He kissed John’s neck as he worked one hand in between them once more, tightening his grip around them both as much as he was able, and John made that strangled sound again that ended almost on a sob. 

_ “Yes, _ John,” Sherlock encouraged him, lifting his own hips and matching thrust for thrust. The tension in his groin was building, an edge of desperation began to suffuse his movements. He remembered then what it had been like, to slip under that cold, cloying water. Unable to breathe, unable to think, heart hammering in a frantic tattoo until he had found purchase on the slippery bricks. He found a purchase now, on skin and cloth and leather. He struggled for life again, and felt John struggling with him, his breathing louder and harsher and more erotic than anything Sherlock had ever heard before. “Come for me, John,” he growled into his ear, putting in one more effort and snapping his hips with abandon. John sucked in one more huge breath, then stilled, frozen in place, eyes wide, as he started to come in red-hot spurts over Sherlock’s hand and stomach. The heat of it did it - sent Sherlock over the edge, his own muscles cramping and his back arching as his release joined John’s, spilling between them. He gasped John’s name, over and over, unable to look away from his face. He was still whispering it, when John became boneless with a long sigh, folding back down to cover Sherlock completely. 

“Shhh,” John whispered into Sherlock’s neck, his hands back around his head, fingers tangled in his hair. “Shhh, it’s alright.”

“John,” Sherlock said one more time, then released the name with a sigh of his own. 

They lay there quietly for some time, hearts slowing, breath returning, sweat cooling, and the firelight dancing on the ceiling above. John eventually relaxed his hands, rested them on Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock stretched his legs to rest his feet against the couch-arm. 

“You’re my whole world,” John murmured. He sounded half-asleep already, body lax and pliant beneath his layers of clothes. 

“And you are mine,” said Sherlock, kissing his forehead, stroking his back. John hummed, settling down further, and it was not long before Sherlock knew he was asleep. 

Sherlock looked past John’s shoulder to the flickering fire. John was his whole world, and he was John’s. For now, there would be sleep. But tomorrow…

Tomorrow...

They would explore that world, together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, comments are always welcome! If you like my writing please go to my author page [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohlooktheresabee/pseuds/ohlooktheresabee) and click the subscribe button to get notified of when new works are published.
> 
> Upcoming works - just a small selection:
> 
> My fanfiction:   
> Octopus (ace!Sherlock, BAMF Sherlock, H/C and perfect John) - part 1 of 3 already posted  
> Almost Unreal (sequel to To Be Human, thriller)  
> I Don't Dance (unapologetic fluff)  
> Domestic Matters (supernatural, house-elf!Sherlock, but not in the HP way lol)  
> Don't Listen to Me (supernatural, banshee!Sherlock, angst with a happy ending)  
> Furie (based on the 'Greece' entry in this collection, dark, horror, explicit)  
> Breathe (casefic, horror, thriller)
> 
> My fanfiction as a podfic:  
> Consulting for Christmas   
> To Be Human  
> Octopus
> 
> Other fanfiction as a podfic:  
> BeautifulFiction, 'On The Fence' (just posted)  
> Berty, 'Drunk Drialing'  
> Blueink3, 'One Good Scare'
> 
> Challenges:  
> June Pride Challenge - another daily ficlet challenge that anyone will be able to enter.
> 
> Annnnnd massive amounts of artwork from amazing artists to go with all of this stuff - fic covers, scene pieces, podfic covers... PLUS original music written and performed by my collaborator Randomwordsonpaper to go with some of these podfics!
> 
> Much love <3


	31. ARTWORK: 'Velvet' by alifetimeaheadtoprovethat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some lovely artists have started making works based on this collection! Here's the first one, 'Velvet', for [Chapter 10, click here to read it.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061969/chapters/71954604)

[](https://ibb.co/7VTL5KG)

(A hand drawn image of Sherlock looking all fine and haughty in his velvet suit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artist is the fabulous [alifetimeaheadtoprovethat, click here to go to their Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/alifetimeaheadtoprovethat)


	32. ARTWORK: 'Power outage' by khorazir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New artwork, this time for 'Power outage', [Chapter 7, click here to read it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29061969/chapters/71775360).

[](https://ibb.co/7b9TsZZ)

“It’s… it’s pirates…” Sherlock whispered, and then he coughed weakly, lips grazing John’s earlobe. 

(Image is of a watercolour and ink painting, showing Sherlock, looking ill and tired, whispering into John's ear. Sherlock's eyes are red, and his hand is in John's hair.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The artist is the amazing [khorazir, click here to go to their Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/khorazir)
> 
> If you're wondering why I always type a description of the images, it is for our friends with visual impairments that use screenreaders to experience our fabulous fandom <3


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